


The World is Yours and Mine

by stagaawolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gendrya - Freeform, Mutual Pining, arya's not going anywhere without gendry, gendry and arya, got season 8 rewrite, happy endgame is their only endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-03-17 18:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18970630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stagaawolf/pseuds/stagaawolf
Summary: Arya wills herself to let go of Gendry and her family as she heads to Kings Landing to kill the queen. But along the way, she realises that choosing to live, to really live, has always been what she’s wanted all along. And Gendry wants to teach her exactly how to do that with him.A multi-chapter s8 somewhat-compliant fic that chronicles Arya and Gendry's journey to choosing each other in the end.





	1. Chapter 1

In her eyes, she has one purpose. Kill the queen on the Iron Throne who watches and hears and knows. Kill the queen who understands the power of the living against the dead. Kill the queen who fears Daenerys Targaryen who marches astride a powerful army who will fight for her, who will kill for her, who will die for her.

Two powerful women, one evil, one good, perhaps. But both dangerous. To the living and the yet to live.

_Knock, aim, loose._

She shuts out the pandemonium, the chaos of the celebrations coming from outside the walls where the Dothraki are situated and extending towards the Great Hall where she knows her family is at. She took food from the kitchens earlier, sneaking warm, fresh-baked bread and a bowl of hot stew she dipped it in. She ate on the fortifications overlooking the pyres where the smell of the burning bodies still lingered.

She would’ve joined in on the celebrations at the Great Hall but truthfully, she was still very, very tired. They stitched up the scar on her forehead well enough, but a bruise still formed that snaked around her eyes and down the right side of her face. It hurt to move her face at times and the thought of having to repeat her thanks to every congratulations made her head hurt.

She ate quick enough and stayed long enough in the cold for her insides to burn in that familiar, throbbing way that she had almost forgotten about as she faced literal death and willed herself against it a mere day ago. _Not today. Not today._

Now death calls again. The only death she will demand of the red god. And if she perishes with her, then so be it. There’ll be no coming home.

She faces the target and sees her father. _Knock_. She remembers his kind eyes shining in amusement and pride at her. _Aim._ She looks at the target and pictures the face that took him from her. Cersei. _Loose_.

And barely misses Gendry.

“Don’t shoot,” he says with his hands raised as he makes his way towards her. She smiles at him fondly as she picks up another arrow to knock.

“It’s night time, it’s freezing, and everyone’s celebrating,” he says, taking his place beside her. “You should be celebrating with them.”

She aims and lets loose, her eyes fixed on her target.

“I am celebrating.”

“I am too.”

She picks up another arrow and readies herself to knock before he speaks again.

“I’m not Gendry Rivers anymore,” he says, “I’m Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End. By order of the queen.”

She looks at him then, genuine surprise written on her face.

“Congratulations,” she says, and means it. He takes her by surprise and kisses her and parting before she could register what just occurred.

“I don’t know how to be a lord of anything, I hardly know how to use a fork!” he says, his hand gripping her arms and his eyes fixed on hers.

“All I know is that you’re beautiful and I love you and none of it would be worth anything if you’re not with me.”

She beams up at him, slightly perturbed at the emotions he’s awakening inside her; this silly boy that she’s been in love with and would have followed to the ends of the earth if he had asked. She looks at him, a little dazed by his confession, as he continues.

“So be with me,” he says, and her heart stops a little at the intent she reads in his eyes. He takes one knee and looks up at her, hopeful. “Be my wife. Be the lady of Storm’s End.”

For a moment, she thinks of her father and how he would’ve loved Gendry Baratheon. She remembers his words to Sansa, her then idiot of a sister who proclaimed her vocal infatuation to Joffrey Lannister. Her father had said that he would arrange for Sansa to wed someone brave, and strong, and gentle. Someone who was kind and worthy of a daughter of the north.

It amuses Arya to think that her father had met Gendry before. It amuses her even more to think of what her father would’ve said if he found out that his Arya had fallen in love with Gendry Baratheon. With all of his bravery, and strength, and gentleness, and kindness. She wonders what her father would’ve said of a union between them now that he’s legitimised as Robert Baratheon’s son. She knows her father wouldn’t have wanted anyone less in character.

She imagines how their union would’ve been celebrated throughout the realm. A true Stark of the North and a legitimised Baratheon of Storm’s End. A rekindled hope for a realm that bled and died for a failed love between Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark.

She pictures Gendry with Jon, with Robb, with Bran and even with Rickon. She imagines that he’d get along well with her father and mother. She imagines her mother being quite amused by his naivety, but he’ll win her over through honour and respect.

He’d learn to be more than just a smith. She could teach him to read, to write, to fight with a sword and have Maester Luwin teach him history and languages and the legends of the First Men and the Targaryens since Aegon the Conqueror – her favourite stories.

She imagines sharing a life together, going off on adventures and travelling across the realm, visiting every part of the Seven Kingdoms and perhaps even beyond that. To Essos and all the lands beyond Braavos, to the Bay of Dragons and further towards Asshai and the Shadow Lands. They could even go and see what’s west of Westeros, if they wanted. Just the two of them, exploring, travelling, just living.

But that was for a different life. A life that’s passed now that her father, mother, Robb and Rickon aren’t here anymore. When Bran isn’t the three-eyed raven and her sister isn’t the Lady of Winterfell and Jon isn’t serving a Targaryen queen bent to rule over the Seven Kingdoms.

Perhaps, she thinks quite sadly, it’s a life for a different Arya too. The Arya that she knew before. The Arya that he knew before too. The Arya who was meant to live. This Arya, the Arya that she is now isn’t meant to think this way let alone to actually live it. She can’t second guess now. She can’t allow her feelings of sentiment overturn her purpose. She has to kill the queen or she will die trying.

And Gendry…

He’s still on one knee looking up at her with his hopeful eyes, waiting eagerly for her answer. An answer that she wishes she could grant him. An answer that a deep part of her is begging her to tell him.

But she knows that she can’t. She’s not a lady. She’s never been and never will be. She will die come the next war in Kings Landing and she will not bring him along with her. The red god will not have him. He deserves a family, even if it won’t be her.

She puts her bow away before leaning down and meeting her where he is on one knee. She takes his face in her hands and lets him know exactly how much he means to her as she takes his lips with her own. He holds on to her arms as she moves to stand up, their lips never parting. She holds his face, gently, lovingly, and he takes her lips this time and she savours it, savours him. She opens his eyes a second after he does, and she steels herself to let him go.

“You’ll be a wonderful lord,” she says, “and any lady will be lucky to have you.”

She doesn’t let herself feel the moment she sees his hopeful expression crumple into a mix of pain and confusion. She goes on. She needs to go on.

“But I’m not a lady,” she says, the final weapon in her arsenal. She needs him to understand that and she needs him to be angry at her. The only way for him to let her go is if she breaks his heart. At least then, he will not be anchored to her and It’ll hurt less when she leaves. Really leaves.

“I never have been,” she continues, looking up at him. “That’s not me.”

She immediately turns away to grab her bow, trying for that semblance of indifference. She wills him to understand as she picks up an arrow and knocks. She wills him to move on, to walk away, as she aims. She can feel him behind her, she can feel his pain, his confusion, his shock, and she wills him to forgive her…and to let her go.

Loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for the every single one of you in the gendrya fandom. Our little babies were done dirty and I'm here to clean some of that mess up. Here's to Arya and Gendry choosing each other because let's face it, they 100% would!


	2. Chapter 2

Davos is the first to notice a sullen Gendry the morning after the feast. Most of the castle are still asleep come dawn but Davos took his precautions the night before, excusing himself to retire earlier than usual as the night wore on and more and more people left the hall to the privacy of their rooms. He hasn’t had a good sleep since he was a young man but it helps to know that their days are no longer numbered by the dead.

A servant boy lays out a fresh pile of brown oatbread on the table where Gendry is sitting nearest the hearth.

“Rough night, lad?” Davos asks with a small laugh as he sits next to Gendry. The boy hasn’t touched his food, but the contents of the wine jug’s been consumed halfway through. When Gendry doesn’t respond, Davos tries a different approach and pours himself a cup. “A bit early to drink this much, ain’t it?”

“Not early enough.”

He looks at Gendry who is eyeing the contents of his cup as if the mysteries of the Seven Kingdoms lay deep within the burgundy. It doesn’t help that he looks like a kicked horse either.

“What happened to you, lad?” Davos asks, reaching for a small loaf. “You left after you’ve been named Lord and I thought you may have gone off to celebrate with your lady love.”

Gendry perks up at that and looks at Davos in surprise. The old man chuckles and pats him on the back.

“I may be old, lad, but I’m not senile,” he says with a laugh. “She’s a real fighter, that one. Best I’ve seen for someone her age. And most grown men if we’re being honest.”

It’s true. Arya Stark has always been a fierce fighter. Of all the years he’s known her and of the times they’ve spent on the road to the Wall with Yoren, Hot Pie and Lommy, she’s never once backed down from a fight. Even if she knows she’s on the losing side.

Arya fought against her captors with such ferocity of will that he often wondered if wolf blood really does run in the Starks. Or at least a few chosen ones from the bloodline of the First Men. Arya seems to embody all of it. The fierceness of the wolf and the ferocity of a true born of the North.

Everything that he admires about Arya, everything that he loves about her is everything that will always keep her from him. From being his wife. His lady. And he hates himself for it, even if he knows that he shouldn’t.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to belong,” he tells Davos. “All I’ve ever wanted was to have a family. To know who I am and just, to be, you know.”

“Aye,” Davos agrees. “And now you’re Lord Gendry Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End,” he tells him. “You will have cousins and aunts and uncles in Storm’s End, even if they’re twice or thrice removed. Perhaps carrying a different name but still, they are Baratheons by blood.”

“I am,” Gendry says rather emptily. “It isn’t enough though, is it? To win the heart of the hero of winterfell.”

“You don’t know th-“

“I asked her to be my wife.”

This time Davos looks dumbfounded. Gendry laughs a little self-deprecatingly at Davos’ reaction.

“Arya’s not a lady,” he continues rather sadly. “She never has been nor will she ever be. I was a fool.” Gendry reaches for the wine jug and pours himself another full cup. Davos looks at the boy rather pityingly, not quite comprehending the swiftness of his asking for her hand. Perhaps the connection between the two of them had been deeper with the lad than with Arya.

Gendry had told Davos about Arya on their way to Dragonstone after leaving Kings Landing many months back. Gendry had remembered the girl fondly; the youngest daughter of Ned Stark whom they called “Arry” with her hair shorn like a boy smuggled out of Kings Landing with some rascals heading for the Watch. She was a smart mouth and never backed down without a fight. She was a survivor and a fighter. Just like Gendry.

Seeing the girl fight the walkers on the battlements, Davos knew immediately that the girl is more than just a skilled fighter, she’s a killer. Perhaps all the years that her and Gendry had been parted had turned her into a person that Gendry doesn’t know yet, and while Gendry stayed the same in the relative safety of Kings Landing, the girl had become someone different. Someone Gendry thought he still knew.

“It’s been years since you last saw each other, lad,” Davos says. “The girl you knew isn’t the young woman that she is right now. But perhaps she just needs some time to think it through.”

 “She’s never been a lady,” Gendry says, shaking his head. “I don’t think she’ll change her mind at my asking again.”

“Well, maybe it was the wrong question to ask,” Davos says. Gendry looks at him with furrowed brows.

“What’d you mean?”

“Well, maybe you should ask her what she wants,” Davos says. “You’ve known each other for longer than I’ve known you. If she doesn’t want to be a lady, then there’s a reason why not. Perhaps she has a strong aversion to the role she has to play. She doesn’t look the type to just wear pretty dresses and greet guests now, doesn’t she?”

Gendry looks at his drink contemplatively. “I’ve no idea how to be a lord of anything too. I thought maybe she could help me, as my wife, and we could do it together.”

Davos finishes his oatbread just as the servant boy returns with blood melons and boiled goose eggs. A trail of sleepy Northmen followed the boy, situating themselves around the table to break their fast.

“Perhaps you’re more alike than you think, lad,” Davos says to him afterwards, shifting to stand. “If you truly love her, then you’ll go and find out why. Perhaps you could change the role of the lord and lady of Storm’s End if that’ll make it easier for her and for you.”

Gendry laughs at that. Davos is right. Gendry didn’t ask Arya why she didn’t want to become a lady, nor did he ask her what she actually wanted to do with herself now that the war of the dead was over. He just walked back to his rooms last night feeling far too self-pityingly and looking back, he really is a damned fool.

He takes two pieces of oatbread and thanks Davos for his wisdom. He’ll take a bath to clear his head and he’ll go and find her. If she’s not going to be his lady, then she’ll be his something else then. Whatever and whomever it is that she wants to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wanted to write the whole thing in Arya's perspective but dang it, how could I pass up the chance to get into the heads of Davos and Gendry too! So here we are, expect to see more of them down the track ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little PG warning towards the end there ;)

“A Targaryen,” Arya says with a shake of her head. “Of the many things he was to confess, that was something that did not ever cross my mind.”

“That explains why father doesn’t like talking about our Aunt Lyanna,” Sansa says. Arya nods.

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s our brother. He’s a Stark and will always be.”

“He is but he isn’t either. Jon’s the true heir, Arya. That changes things.”

“It does, but it doesn’t either,” Arya replies. “Jon swore to follow the queen and will soon follow her to war. He doesn’t want the throne.”

Sansa frowns at her sister. “Do you think that Daenerys would be a good queen? Do you remember what happened when I asked for the North’s independence after she takes the crown?”

“Jon will rule alongside her,” Arya replies. “Surely he can persuade her to let you keep the North.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Daenerys has the true power in whatever it is that they have.”

“Their love, you mean?”

“Jon _thinks_ he loves her. Feelings can change. Especially after finding out that she’s actually his aunt.”

Arya lets out a small laugh. “Must’ve been quite a shock.”

Sansa laughs along with her. “Our family doesn’t do well with finding people to love it seems. Apart from father and mother, that is.”

Arya wants to agree with her sister, and she’s looking at her as if she will. Sansa notes her hesitation and lifts a brow.

“You’re not telling me something, aren’t you?”

Arya tries to dodge the question with a non-committal “No”. Sansa walks over to her sister and stands in front of her, her blue eyes glinting under the godswood tree.

“Arya…”

“Do you remember Gendry?” Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Robert Baratheon’s bastard?”

“Well, not anymore.” Arya didn’t expect her sister to laugh but she does anyway.

“Will you stop laughing?” Arya sighs, rolling her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Arya shrugs. “Didn’t think it was a big deal. Besides, he’s the lord of Storm’s End now. And don’t start with my being a lady. That’s you. It’ll always be.”

“Do you love him?”

Arya didn’t think that she would ever talk to Sansa about boys and liking them or whatever. She had always despised this kind of talk when she was younger and Sansa’s infatuation with Joffrey didn’t help that cause either. But Sansa had been through a nightmare with Joffrey, with Ramsay Bolton and even with Littlefinger. All three of them had used and abused her older sister and if anyone were to know what it means to be with someone good and honourable and kind like their father was with their mother, it would be her. Arya thinks her sister deserves to know about her and Gendry at least.

She takes a deep breath and says, “I do.”

**~**

The remaining northern forces along with the bulk of the Dothraki and the Unsullied are to march towards Kings Landing in a fortnight while a small contingent will leave for White Harbour with the queen in two days’ time. Arya knows that if she is to leave without their notice, she has to do so by the morrow. By daybreak, she decides. No crowds, no questions.

She doesn’t seek Jon out knowing that she’ll see him in Kings Landing but she does go on her way to bid Bran farewell.

“You’re heading to Kings Landing to kill Cersei,” Bran says by way of greeting. She finds him in his room by the hearth as still as the statues in the crypts. Since returning, Bran has perplexed Arya the most. His journey beyond the wall and back and to becoming a three-eyed raven had been quite a tale for both her and Sansa whom she couldn’t stop looking at in bewilderment when Bran told her his tale that evening of her return.

And _Hodor_. Gods, she must’ve looked a complete fool when he got to that part of his story. Everything about Bran sounds improbable to most but Arya has seen and experienced enough to understand that her brother is very much like her. Different. Unusual. It gives her a little comfort, even if she sometimes wished that Bran would speak to her like the Bran that she had known. She’d always remember the little brother that she teased and pushed around.

“Last name on my list,” she says with a small smile. “Maybe I can end the war before it even begins.”

“Perhaps,” Bran says. “And perhaps not.”

Arya expects him to continue but he doesn’t. She wraps her arms around him and holds him tightly.

“Take care, little brother,” she breathes into his shoulder. She straightens and plants a kiss on his forehead before making her way to the door. “Tell Sansa after it’s done.”

“Arya,” he calls. She pauses by the vestibule and looks back at him. “Everything happens for a reason.”

Arya gives her brother a small, sad smile before shutting the door behind her.

**~**

It’s in the crypts, by the statue of her father that Arya spends her last night in Winterfell. After saying her farewell to Bran, she goes to the forges to pick up Needle and her Valyrian steel dagger after a polish and re-sharpening. She doesn’t see Gendry and assumes that he’s probably off doing something lordly. Probably preparing to leave for Storm’s End himself to rally the Stormlands for the queen. She smiles to herself at the thought of him as a lord. Gendry doesn’t know how to read as far as she knows and swears that he has an aversion for highborns even if he had relentlessly teased her so. Nonetheless, she thinks he’ll make a great lord. It’s easy enough to learn one’s letters and she recalls Jon telling her about Ser Davos and how he only recently learnt how to read too, and if the old man can survive this long without knowing how to read, Gendry will be more than fine.

She’ll miss him, even if she isn’t ready to really admit it to herself. She never thought that she’d ever see him again after the red woman had taken him captive those many years back, but perhaps Bran is right and that there is a purpose for everything.

She imagines their life would have been different if they had both stayed together. She wouldn’t have gone to Braavos and he wouldn’t have been there with Jon beyond the wall and ultimately saving their lives. It’s hard to think about what could have been, but it’s harder to think about what could be.

She’s loved Gendry for so long now. He’s been her closest friend and most trusted companion. She remembered him often in her travels with The Hound, wondering what a conversation would have been like with someone who would annoy her about the little things without having to fear for her life.

Gendry was notorious for that. For questioning everything and making her want to tear her hair out at his stupidity. But it was endearing. She would have followed him to the ends of the world if he had asked.

There was a moment in their coupling when nothing had mattered but him. She’s had him pinned underneath her, his eyes taking her in before she softly took his lips. She’s had dreams of this moment, wondering what it’d feel like to share his bed. She never needed to entertain these thoughts before but seeing the power of a woman over a man and somewhat experiencing these sorts of sensations when she pretended to be someone else had roused something in her.

She knew what the act entailed. She also knew that it had to be done at your most vulnerable. She never thought that she could trust anyone with that kind of exposure of her body even it meant finally experiencing what others say is an intense kind of pleasure. But seeing Gendry again and watching him work and noticing him watching her as a man would a woman, she knew that if she was ever to share her first time with someone, it would be with him.

He had been so gentle with her. He let her lead even if she only moved the way her body moved in response to him kissing her back. But then he moved, his warm hands reaching out to places she’s never been touched before. He kissed her deeper, longer, and no sooner were they both entangled in each other, their bodies pressed tightly together that the memory of it sometimes gets lost on her. She could only remember the way his strong arms had enveloped her, lifted her, and how his body moved with hers, and the rush, and the pain, and the _feeling_ of finally having him.

She awakened before he did, his longcoat draped over her. She hadn’t wanted it to end. She hadn’t wanted to leave. She thinks of his kind smile and his eyes that looked at her with such pure love it made her body shudder. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, thinking of him and thanking him silently for loving her. She lets her head rest on the stone and watches the lights flicker overhead.

Tomorrow, she rides.

And she has no plans on coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, I'm really smashing these out quicker than expected! Must be the constant HURTED that is and will forever be that awful finale lol. Anywho, getting into Arya's head is fun and finally being able to talk about their love scene is so cathartic. Hope you enjoyed this one, me luvvs. Hope to get another chapter out by the end of the week but thanks for reading you beautiful, tropical fish you xxx


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Language.

In the latter days of summer, when the low-hanging fruits slowly begin to drop and the temperate weather begins to grow cooler as the days grow longer, the people of the North would begin their preparations for the coming winter. Most of the Stark bannermen had taken temporary residence in Winterfell both as a refugee and as allies in the war, bringing along grain, wheat, fruit preserves, salted and dried meat, woollen and coarse fabric, and sacks upon sacks of root vegetables.

The castle halls had been crowded with soldiers, women, and children alike but now, in the aftermath of a battle many believed was to be their end, the halls are eerily quiet. Empty. The stores overflowing now that half of the armies have perished.

Arya emerges from the crypts in the early hours before daybreak. Fresh snow blankets the inner courtyard, crunching underneath her feet as she makes her way to her chambers. The ghostly silence isn’t lost on her as she passes the once-crowded hallways.

She takes a hot bath, soaking in the water and the steam one last time. Sansa had given her a clove and cinnamon hard soap to lather herself with and she scrubbed it around her body, her legs, her arms and a little gently across her face. The bruise around her right eye is slowly fading but the scar on her forehead is still sore but less angry-looking now that she’s applied copious amounts of snow on it as Maester Wolkan’s prescribed.

She remembers Maester Luwin fondly. Her siblings had grown up under his tutelage and care, having delivered her and all her siblings himself those many moons ago which seems like an entire lifetime now. Maester Luwin would attentively see to the many cuts and bruises she acquired as a little girl, running, wrestling and fighting with her brothers, and sometimes climbing the parapets with Bran. She never once complained apart from a little cry when her knees had been scraped up badly after a fall, and Maester Luwin would always gift her with sweet hard candy with a little wink to make sure she doesn’t come back with more than scrapes and bruises for him to tend to.

She touches her abdomen then her sides, feeling the jagged, stitched skin, and wonders what Maester Luwin would have said to her if she had come to him with knife wounds that, if the weapon had been longer, would’ve killed her before he could even begin to staunch the bleeding. Even Gendry had noticed the scars and had surprised him enough to forget to take his own bloody pants off.

She dries herself off and ruminates on her scars a little longer as she gets dressed and thinks about Sansa’s too. She may not have physical marks on her body from what that bastard shit Ramsay did to her, but she will carry the scars of the memory with her forever. Arya wishes she had been there to have witnessed Jon bloody him up and Sansa feed him alive to his own hounds. She smirks. Her siblings know how to enact bloody proper revenge just as much as she does.

**~**

No sooner has the sun began to rise across Winterfell when Arya makes her way along the road towards Kings Landing. She expects the journey to be long, cold, and quiet in her lonesome until she spots him in his own horse chewing something in his mouth, as always. The Hound.

“For fuck’s sake,” he says rather irritatingly as she comes into his view. He casts the rest of the dried meat on the ground.

“On your own?” she asks, sidling her horse beside his.

“Not anymore. I don’t like crowds.”

“Me neither.”

“Why not?” he asks. “They all love you now. You’re a big hero.”

She frowns. She’s never thought herself a hero, she was trying to survive just as much as they had been. It just so happens that she’s been trained her whole life for that moment and she took the chance since no one else could.

“I don’t like heroes,” she lies.

“Must’ve felt good sticking a knife in that horned fucker.”

“Felt better than dying,” she says sardonically. “You heading to Kings Landing?”

“I’ve some unfinished business.”

“Me too.”

They trot a little further in silence before he says, “I don’t plan on coming back.” She wishes she could tell him that she does have plans on returning home but instead she echoes his own.

“Neither do I.”

“You’re going to leave me to die again if I get hurt?” he asks, harking back to the last time they saw each other.

“Probably,” she says with a small smile. The Hound lets out a small laugh, amused by what’s become of this little wolf two years later. She’s the same but also not. As dangerous, if not more, than him now. He has no doubt that if she tries to kill him now, it’d be too easy for her to succeed. He hopes that if the time comes, she does give it to him. If his brother doesn’t get to him first.

“You’re going to tell me what happened to you?” He glances at her and sees her consider it, so he asks, “Did you go and find Brienne of Tarth?”

She shakes her head. “I took the long road back to Winterfell.”

“Which road is that?”

“It isn’t a road, really,” she says with a knowing smile. “More like the narrow sea.”

**~**

On the road to Kings Landing was quiet enough for the both of them. They’ve exhausted their tales since their separation to now, finding it amusing that they’ve somehow come full circle with their journeys, and have spent most of their days riding in companionable silence.

They’re two days away from Kings Landing, roasting rabbits by the fire when The Hound tells Arya, “Thought you’d be bringing your smith.”

Arya frowns at him, confused. “My what?”

“That twat who wanted to bed you,” he says, munching loudly.

Arya rolls his eyes at The Hound. She’s never encountered anyone so vulgarly honest as him in her entire life.

“Why would I bring him with me?” she asks. “He’s a lord now. He’s got better things to do than fight a war that isn’t his.”

“Aye. But he kept asking where you were. Would’ve chucked him off the fucking wall if he asked me one more time.”

The Hound crunches on the bones and spits them out before looking up at her. She’s studying the fire with a look on her face he hasn’t seen before.

“I didn’t want to see him.”

“Why? Fucker so bad in bed you toss him?” He snorts and Arya glares at him. Gendry’s been more than a good lay for her first time. Great even, given her limited experience, but she’s not about to discuss that with Sandor Clegane of all people. That’s her business and only her own.

“Because there’s no need to,” she argues back. “Gendry and I are good friends.”

“Good friends don’t fuck each other.”

“Good friends should know me better than asking me to be their lady.”

At that, The Hound laughs loudly, his guffaw echoing across their dim surrounds. Arya wishes she could throw a dagger through his mouth to shut him off.

“You sleep once, he becomes a lord and asks you to be his lady! Twat’s got some balls after all.”

“He’ll find a lady, a good one.”

“You’re a lady.”

“I’m not.”

“Aye, you are.”

“Am not.” She enunciated, meeting his devious eyes with a cold stare.

“You could be if you wanted to. You act like you won’t be a good little lady, prancing about in your castle, ordering people around.”

“I’ll stick a knife through your eye and out the back of your skull like I promised you last,” she threatens.

His amusement angers her. Why won’t he just drop the damn subject about her being a lady? He knows that she hates everything to do with it. It’s Sansa’s thing and not hers. It always has and always will be.

“That Mormont girl was a lady,” he says. “Never stopped her from killing that fucking giant. Bet you can do better than that even in your sister’s pretty little dress.”

Arya laughs with a shake of her head. She could, but she wouldn’t. Maybe if Gendry had asked her to be with him but as something else…

No. She’s not going to think about any of that. The possibilities are endless and she’s already decided on what she has to do and what she will do. She will not be distracted by anything or anyone right now.

“Cersei’s the last name on my list,” she says, her steely gaze on the burning embers of the fire. Clegane sees the determination dancing in the flames reflected in her eyes. Her journey has always led her to this moment – exacting vengeance for her murdered family. Cersei is the last name on her list and she has this faceless fucker to contend with. He wagers that the queen will be dead within the week, open-throated and bleeding on the iron throne.

But she has to get past his brother first. And it’ll be him to contend with. He can think up of innumerable ways of ending him, each one more satisfying than the rest. He’ll rid of him and let him die in the process if it means Arya gets to finish her list and fuck on back home.

That smith of hers may be a lord now but it’s clear that he means a lot to the young woman, even if she vehemently denies it. She’s got her family to go back to. She shouldn’t toss it away like he did. Besides, it’s too late for him anyway. He’s never had anyone, nor does he want anyone. Not really. He’ll die and he’ll die protecting her and killing his brother in the process.

“I’m going to sleep.” Arya stretches back down to the mat, her needle in her hand as she turns on her side, her back against the fire. “You take first watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was harder than I thought! And definitely more Arya-heavy but I love writing her dynamic with The Hound. Ugh. Those two are my favourite duo in the entire series. Seriously. Not much action here but more of Gendry next chapter and of course their eventual coming together which I'm super excited about! Thanks for reading, folks, appreciate the love and feedback so much xxx


	5. Chapter 5

Gendry hasn’t seen Arya since the evening he asked her to be his wife. He had asked about her, but no one had been able to give him a concrete answer as to her whereabouts. It was frustrating but also somewhat amusing too. Arya’s always been good at disappearing and reappearing whenever she pleases.

He runs a hand through his short-cropped hair. It irks him that he can’t find her now when he used to be able to do so quite easily.

He checks the forge and the grain stores, manoeuvres his way to the godswood and the Hound was nothing short of ill-tempered when he saw him on the battlements. He’d like to have both his feet on solid ground and not thrown over the damn walls. He eventually stops and decides to occupy himself with steel work. For all he knows, she’s busy doing something a lady of Winterfell would do. She may reject the title but she still is one despite her abhorrence to it.

Jon must’ve noticed how surly he looked at their evening meal when Arya was still nowhere to be found as he makes his way to sit beside him.

“To Lord Gendry Baratheon the Lord of Storm’s End.” Jon lifts his cup in jest.

“Don’t think I’ll get used to it,” Gendry says, tapping his cup with his.

“You never do,” Jon laughs. “I’m glad they stopped calling me King in the North. I’m honoured but I never wanted it.”

“Perhaps things will be different this time,” Gendry muses. Jon nods in agreement.

“Let’s hope it is.” A small crowd enters through the main doors and Gendry scans them, hoping to glimpse Arya.

“Looking for someone?” Jon asks. Gendry turns to him a little sheepishly.

“Your sister, actually. Arya.”

“Been trying to find her myself,” Jon says with a small frown. Gendry thinks that maybe he can somehow find out where her chambers are without sounding like a lecher when he notices Jon looking at him with an amused smile.

“You and Arya are close, aren’t you?” Jon asks. Gendry doesn’t know if Jon _knows_ anything about them two but decides to play it safe anyway.

“Known her since she was twelve, thirteen,” Gendry remembers fondly. “Been through a lot together, her and I.”

“Must be nice to see each other again,” Jon says. Gendry smiles.

“A little short-lived though with the army of dead and everything,” Gendry says with a laugh. “But it is. She’s changed a lot. Sometimes I wonder if she’s actually the same Arya that I know.”

Jon nods in agreement. “Arya’s been through a lot since you two got separated. I couldn’t believe some of the stories she was telling me. My little sister doing all that? It’s not much of a surprise but it’s still a bit hard to grasp. But you’d know that by now.”

“Actually, I don’t really,” Gendry tells him a little sadly. “I know she can fight. Davos tells me he’s never seen anyone fight like her before. Wish I could’ve seen it firsthand. But the rest, I don’t know. Haven’t really managed to talk to her about it much. Though I did see her scars. She must have a real good story about those. “

“Her scars?” Jon asks. Gendry blanches. How does he answer that without embarrassing himself to Arya’s own brother that he’s seen the scars that pepper her stomach and her sides because he’s made love to her? Gods, it’s horrifying to even think about it in Jon’s presence let alone say it out loud.

“There you are.” Daenerys walks over to where they are sitting and Gendry lets out a deep breath of thanks for her coming just in time to save him from further embarrassment. Jon looks at him questioningly but Gendry chooses to ignore it as he acknowledges Daenerys with a bow of his head.

“Your grace,” he says. Daenerys sits herself next to Jon who acknowledges her with a small smile.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you sooner, Gendry,” she says.

“Whatever for, your grace?” Davos had told Gendry that her making him lord would come with a price: fealty to the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Gendry had already made up his mind that he didn’t want the title. Not really. Not if it meant not having Arya with him. But the old man had been insistent.

“Either you keep the title lad, and swear your fealty to her as Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End, or you don’t keep the title and she’ll see you as no ally,” Davos had said. “It’s dangerous to be on the wrong side of this war. The dead has nothing on the politics of kings and queens.”

Gendry knows that all too well; the great game that kings, queens and highborns play for power and control over the Seven Kingdoms. It costs nothing less than bloodshed and loss, but he trusts Jon with his life and Jon trusts the queen. If he plays his cards right, he can give the queen the support that she needs from him and the Stormlands so that when the time comes when he asks her to be free from his duties as a lord, she will welcome it. Gendry awaits the day he’ll finally be at liberty to be with Arya however and whatever way she wants – just as it should be. Just as he desperately wants it to be.

“The combined forces will ride to Kings Landing tomorrow but you and Ser Davos will ride to White Harbour with me,” she says. “You will sail to Storm’s End and there you will rally the Stormlands under your claim as the legitimate son of Robert Baratheon. Build your relations with the people of the Stormlands. Let them see that you are good and honourable and only want what’s best for your people. And when the war with Cersei is over and I am finally on the throne as the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I will acknowledge the Stormlands and you as its Lord Paramount.”

She beams at Gendry with a genteel sort of pride from someone who knows exactly who they are and what they are meant to do. It makes Gendry feel a little queasy at the thought of someone so self-assured about their status and duty. He wishes he can feel even a slight semblance to it as a lord.

“Together, we will create a new and better world for us and for the future generations to come.”

“As you will it, your grace,” he says. “It’d be a nice change to have someone look out for the common people once in a while.”

Dany leans back, a broad smile still plastered on her face. The stories about the dragon queen really are true. She is a breathtaking woman. Though a little unnerving for Gendry with her unusual silver-white hair and striking blue eyes that pierces like an arrow. Jon looks smitten, he thinks, but he guesses he’s probably the same around Arya too. Arya and Daenerys couldn’t be farther from each other in their looks but he sees a similar sort of determination in their eyes. He wishes she’s here with him now.

“Thank you for the honour, your grace,” he says.

**~**  

One of the more talkative and helpful scullions pointed him to Arya’s chambers and Gendry finds himself staring at her door nervously, unsure how to proceed. What will he tell her when she opens it? He’s afraid that his knees will give way and he’ll ask for her hand again if she but looks at him. But no, he steels himself. He’ll tell her he wants her for her. All of her. Lord Baratheon be damned, all he wants is to be with her and wherever she goes, he’ll follow.

He takes a breath, two, three, then raps at her door. No response. He does again but this time he calls out her name.

“Arya, it’s Gendry.” Still no response. He frowns. “Are you in there? I’m coming in.”

He pushes the door open and sees a low fire burning in the hearth but no Arya to be found. The room is sparse and barely furnished. The Valyrian steel dagger rests on the table next to an eaten plate. A satchel hangs by one of the chairs and a few undershirts and cloaks are laid out on the bed. Nothing seems to be amiss apart from Arya nowhere to be found. Where in the old gods and the new could she be?

“Arya, can you come and oh, you’re not Arya.”

Gendry turns around to find the Lady Sansa by the door. He bows his head in acknowledgment.

"Forgive me, milady," he says. “I was just um, looking. For her. For Arya. Your sister.”

Sansa smiles at him knowingly and he blushes for blubbering like an idiot. What will he tell the Lady of Winterfell now that she’s caught him sneaking around in her little sister’s bedroom? Gods, can this day be any worse for him.

“It’s alright, Gendry,” she says with a smile. “I was hoping to find her here too but looks like she’s escaped us again.”

“She’s very good at that,” he agrees. He stands there, in Arya’s chamber, rather awkwardly not knowing what to say that won’t incriminate him.

“I’ll best be going then, milady,” he says as he makes his way out, head still slightly bowed as he approaches her by the door. “If I find her I’ll let you know.”

Before he can turn away, Sansa calls out, “Gendry.”

He turns around and meets her eyes. “Thank you for taking care of my sister. I can imagine how much of a handful she must have been back then but thank you for looking out for her anyway. You didn’t have to, but you did. My family owes you much gratitude.”

He doesn’t expect that but it fills him with warmth anyway to hear that from Arya’s older sister. He remembers Arya telling him how her and Sansa never got along when they were children but it seems that they now they do. He thinks warmly of Arya for even mentioning him to her sister.

“There’s no need to thank me, milady,” he tells her. “I wouldn’t be here without her.”

**~**  

The next morning, Jon tells Gendry that Arya left. It shouldn’t have bothered him that much but it does. She left without saying goodbye.

“Why can’t she just talk to me about it?” he tells Davos as their contingent makes their way on the road to White Harbour. “I’ve been her longest friend, I love her and asked her to marry me. Why is it so difficult for her to just tell me that she doesn’t want to be with me?”

Gendry knows that he’s just angry but he is. He is _fuming_. Arya left to go to Kings Landing without saying goodbye to anyone, including her own sister. And him? Did she even spare a thought for him?

“Doesn’t mean that she doesn’t want to be with you, lad,” Davos responds. “Why would she go to Kings Landing anyway? Her family’s here.”

Gendry wants to spit out that it’s because she probably can’t stand being in his presence but remembers Arya’s list. The one she recited every night before she fell asleep.

“Cersei’s on her list,” he tells Davos. And then it strikes him. “She’s going there to kill the queen.”

He stops his horse midway and turns it around.

“I have to go,” he says. Davos looks at him like he’s grown a pair of horns.

“You’re not going to Kings Landing, lad,” Davos tells him. “You’re under orders of the queen to go to Storm’s End and-“

“None of this matters,” he interrupts. “Arya’s going to Kings Landing and she’s going to get killed. I’m not going to just let her die there.”

Davos urges his mare in front of Gendry’s and blocks his way. Some of the men look at them curiously but they continue their march forward.

“This is the path that she chose, Gendry,” Davos says. “Now you are on your own as well. You are the Lord of Storm’s End. And most importantly, you are under the command of your queen. She will not let you off easy if you do not do what you are told.”

“But Arya is-“

“The little wolf can handle herself. But you, you cannot march yourself up there and fight in a war with seasoned soldiers. The Golden Company are trained killers, lad. This isn’t an army of the dead that can be defeated with a quick stab of dragonglass. Now, listen. We will go to Storm’s End and you will do what you are told. Afterwards, when all is well and the queen is sitting on the Iron Throne, you can go to Kings Landing and find her.”

Gendry’s breathing heavily. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to let her go to King’s Landing on her own. But he knows that Davos is right too. Queen Daenerys won’t take his insubordination lightly. He knows they’ll win. Cersei can’t manage to fight their army and two full-grown dragons. But the thought of Arya in the midst of all that bloodshed terrifies him.

“What if she doesn’t survive?” He murmurs more to himself but Davos hears him. He sidles his mare beside his and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“She will, lad, she will,” he says. “If there’s anyone who can survive a battle, nay a war, it’s the little wolf.”

Gendry feels himself slowly resigning to her fate but deep inside he can’t accept it. He won’t.

“I’ll convince Jon to ask for me to join him in King’s Landing after a few weeks in the Stormlands with you,” Davos suggests. “I’ll look for her, Gendry, and try my best to look out for her. I will send ravens.”

Gendry lets out a sigh and turns his mare back around towards White Harbour. Arya will be okay. He knows she will. She has to be. He doesn’t pray to the gods, the old and the new, but he’ll beseech every single one of them to make sure that the god of death doesn’t claim her. Not today. Not while he still breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love a pining Genny B! And I wanted Gendry to interact with the Starks and Dany so here he is! It annoys me that we didn't get that and I regret not getting a chance to do so with Arya and Dany too * sighs * Anywho, a few more chaps before they finally see each other again so stay tuned ;D
> 
> Thanks so much for your reads/kudos/comments. I adore every one. See y'all in the next chap shortly xx


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mild language.

It was easy enough to make their way past the siege unit that was stationed outside the walls of Kings Landing. Did that sentry really think he could’ve stopped them? Arya scoffs. No one will get in her way. Nor The Hound’s for that matter.

The harder measures is making it inside the walls itself. Clegane knows a way in but upon their arrival a week ago, it had been blasted shut.

“Wildfire,” he spat.

Arya had heard of the horrific substance. The queen blew the Great Sept of Baelor with it after all. Arya hasn’t seen its destructive powers first-hand but for it to bring down an entire structure that had withstood for hundreds of years is astounding even to hear about. She saw the remnants of the destruction when they were approaching Kings Landing and Clegane had laughed at her shock upon seeing it.

It took them a whole week to scout out another way for them to get into the castle – through the damn gates – and by time they figured out what to do, most of the combined forces had arrived.

“This would’ve been easier if you weren’t so fucking tall and recognisable,” she tells him as they huddle together amongst the crowd of refugees entering into Kings Landing. He growls. He knows she’s right.

Daenerys wreaking havoc at the city gates is their best diversion. As soon as they enter the city, she tosses her cloak aside while Clegane keeps the hood over his. The Red Keep is still a good distance away and they don’t want to waste their energy having to kill their way through.

The pandemonium is deafening. Mills of men, women, children, and soldiers alike are running, marching, shouting, and screaming as the loud boom of dragon wings permeated the air. Everyone is in a panic. The gold cloaks are trying to keep a semblance of order but to no avail. The dragon queen is here. And she has come for their queen with fire and blood.

The Red Keep isn’t well-guarded. Most are stationed on the battlements and towers, feebly holding their bows and arrows as if such weapons can penetrate the hide of a dragon. They take out a few of the guards easily enough and they make their way up the landing just as the city bells start to ring.

“What’s that for?” she asks, frowning. Clegane stops and looks out the nearest window facing the gates.

“Surrender.”

The bell tolls are echoing across the city so loudly that it’s a miracle that she can even hear herself think. She sees the largest of the dragons from the distance perched atop one of the walls. Drogon. She heard that Rhaegal, the smaller one, had been shot down by Euron Greyjoy. It angers Arya for a moment, thinking about these great and majestic creatures being so cruelly wiped out because of war and ambition. But then she realises: how have dragons been useful in the past if not to destroy one’s enemies or conquer through fear and fire?

She recognises Drogon readying to take flight, spreading it’s gigantic wings and stretching on its hind legs, and soon it takes off, heading straight to where they are now. She turns to The Hound the same time he does her. _Move_.

They hurriedly make their way towards the highest tower where they know Cersei is overlooking everything. There is a loud rumbling sound followed by a terrible screech and the Keep trembles beneath their feet. Daenerys has come with the wrath of a dragon as she burns and burns and burns.

Arya and The Hound reach a courtyard with a map of Westeros painted across the surface, but their eyes are trained upwards. Parts of the roof have collapsed, opening up the courtyard to the elements. They see Drogon fly overhead. Arya watches in disbelief as the walls around them shake and crumble. She looks behind her, the loud boom of falling debris grabbing her attention.

“Go home girl,” The Hound tells her, his eyes still trained overhead. “Fire will get her. Or one of the Dothraki.”

Arya doesn’t expect that to come out of his mouth. She frowns at him, not understanding as Drogon screeches again, sweeping across the sky towards the other side of the keep. “Or maybe that dragon’ll get her. Doesn’t matter, she’s dead.”

Arya glowers at him before he finally turns to her. She’s never seen him look at her this way as he continues, “And you’ll be dead too if you don’t get out of here.”

The look angers her even more. The dragon queen can’t have Cersei. She is hers. She made it all the way here and she’s not about to let Daenerys Targaryen or a Dothraki wild man or a falling Red Keep take her kill. For all that Cersei’s done to her family, she will get her vengeance one way or another.

“I’m going to kill her,” she says matter-of-factly, determined to ignore whatever the hell he’s trying to do. He can’t scare her from backing down now.

She walks around The Hound determined to climb up that tower and slit Cersei’s throat when he grabs her arm and forcefully holds her towards him. She tries to fight him but he doesn’t budge. She fixes him with a defiant look that he returns.

“You think you wanted revenge a long time? I’ve been after it all my life. It’s all I care about.” Arya wrenches her arm from his grip. She doesn’t have the time for this.

“Look at me,” he says. Arya ignores him and turns her head around.

“LOOK AT ME!” He yanks her towards him and his loud voice startles her. She stares up at him, angry…and confused. She’s breathing heavily, not understanding what in the hell has gotten to him when he looks her in the eyes and his gaze noticeably softens.

“You want to be like me?” he asks. Arya swallows. He grabs the back of her neck gently but firmly and for a split second she understands. He’s willing her to see him. For who he truly is. What _made_ him who he is.

Her heart stops as she recognises it. The way he’s looking at her - it’s the same way her father used to look at her. Her father who had loved her beyond anything. Her father who had never once looked down upon her for being a girl and for wanting to fight. Her father who had arranged for her lessons with Syrio Forel, her father who had defended her, looked out for her, protected her. Her father who made sure to tell Yoren that she had been watching by Baelor’s statue at his own trial. Her father, who, till the end, ensured that she would live.

“You come with me, you die here.”

The Hound, the one other man in her life who had done the same even if he didn’t owe her anything. Even if it began with her as his means to be paid. This man, who had been one of her longest companions. This man she admires, looks up to. This man who is now looking at her with that same love that her own father had done before.

He wants her to live. She can see it now. He wants her to truly live. Not like him whose entire life had been consumed with vengeance. A life that she thought she had wanted to, had pursued at one point.

At Braavos she had been. Her mind, her heart, her entire self set on that singular purpose of avenging her family; of completing her list. But in the end, she knew she had been playing herself. All she wanted is to return home to them. To see Jon again and have him ruffle her hair and sweep her into a hug. To see her brothers and even Sansa if they had survived. To avenge her family, yes, that had come with it. But only because she would be home. With them, her family, the people whom she loved with every fibre of her being.

She sees a hint of a sad smile on his face as he withdraws his hand from her and slides it down her shoulders. He pats her one last time before walking away, towards the stairs that will lead him to vengeance. To death.

She closes her eyes and tries to picture all the atrocities that had befallen her family since the day the Lannisters had arrived on the courtyard of Winterfell. She remembers seeing him for the first time mounted on his horse wearing that snarling hound helm. Who knew that they had come as both messengers of death and death itself?

Arya can’t imagine a life where her father had refused King Robert; a life where they all lived and Jon didn’t have to go to the wall and the Night King hadn’t been real and her mother, father, Robb and Rickon hadn’t died in a pointless game for the Iron Throne.

She knows that if none of these would’ve happened, then she wouldn’t be here right now either. She wouldn’t have learnt to be a faceless man. She wouldn’t have fulfilled who she needed to be to be separate from her sister. And – she closes her eyes and pictures his eyes bright with life – she wouldn’t have met Gendry.

 _Live_.

“Sandor,” she calls him. The first time she ever does, and the last. “Thank you.”

 **~**  

The surprise on Jon’s face makes her regret sneaking next to him but she can’t help it. She needs to be there with him. Her head is still throbbing and she’s at least cleaned some of the ash and blood that had coated her face but she knows that she still looks as dreadful as she feels.

“What are you doing here?” There’s concern on his tone and complete horror as he looks her over. He places a gentle hand on her shoulder and another by the side of her face. “What happened?”

“I came to kill Cersei,” she answers. “Your queen got there first.”

She looks across to Daenerys’ retreating figure.

“She’s every one’s queen now.”

“Try telling Sansa that.”

She knows her brother. She knows that what just happened, what Daenerys did to the entire city, won’t bode well with him. Sansa had told them both about her distrust of the queen and Arya didn’t want to believe it. Not really. She trusted Jon with all her life and Jon trusted the queen. Surely if he said she is good then she is. But looking at the decimated city and the thousands of innocent lives now dead because of her, Arya knows that they had all been fooled. Her brother especially.

“Wait for me outside the city gates, I’ll come find you,” he tells her but she grabs his arm.

“Jon.” She’s tired, so very tired. “She knows who you are. Who you really are. You’ll always be a threat to her. And I know a killer when I see one.”

**~**

Ser Davos sees her lone figure making her way outside the city gates where the rest of the Northern army is encamped. Her hair is matted with blood and ash and there are scratch marks running down the sides of her face and her forehead. She’s limping a little, a hand on her left side but she’s alive. Hurt, but very much alive.

She’s asking one of the lookouts for a healer when he comes to her side.

“I’ll take care of her,” he tells the man. Arya doesn’t say anything as he leads her to the healers’ tent and sits her down on one of the elevated bedrolls. He fetches her a cup of water as they tend to her face and the cut on the left side of her forehead just above her ear. She takes it without a word. The healer leaves her with instructions not to move too much and to rest her head until the throbbing passes. She closes her eyes and leans her head back on the feather pillow and falls asleep.

Davos finds her in Jon’s tent, washed and wrapped in one of Jon’s fur cloaks. She looks a little rested, but her eyes are tired.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks. She gestures for him to sit beside her by the fire and she pours them both a drink. They sit in silence for a little while.

“I know now’s not really the time,” he begins, “but I come bearing news.”

“What is it?” she asks, her eyes crinkling in concern.

“Jon’s been made prisoner.” Arya stands abruptly just as Davos holds out his arms towards her to calm her.

“Why would he be taken prisoner, he is Daenerys-”

“The dragon queen is dead.”

Davos watches as her face turns from anger to confusion as she tries to steady her breathing. He gestures to the chair and she slumps back down on it.

“Your brother killed her and surrendered himself to Grey Worm and the Unsullied. He is now holding him as their prisoner along with Tyrion.”

“I won’t let them kill him.”

She’s staring at the flames again with calculated, controlled fierceness. Davos knows that she’ll go to great lengths to free her brother and he knows that she can do it if given the chance. The little wolf’s abilities are no exaggeration. His travels had been far and wide enough for him to know what the people of the House of Black and White can do. And Arya Stark had trained with them.

“We managed to negotiate Grey Worm out of doing so for the time being at least,” he says. “Now that there is no queen nor a throne, the people of Westeros would need to come together and decide how to approach the matter of rulership. Tyrion will stand trial in three weeks.”

Arya turns to him. “There will be a council to decide this?”

“Aye,” Davos responds. “Ravens have been sent out to all the current lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently, reassuringly.

“We won’t let anything happen to your brother, child,” he says. “That you have my word.”

She gives him a small smile in thanks.

“I suppose Lord Baratheon will be coming too,” she remarks, trying but failing to hide the unspoken meaning behind her words. Davos smiles to himself.

“Aye, m’lady,” he says. “He’ll be here before the rest does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GENDRYA REUNION NEXT CHAP (!!!)


	7. Chapter 7

“I wish none of this had happened.”

Arya closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the bolted door where her brother is held captive. Davos had managed to negotiate with Grey Worm into allowing her to talk to Jon but she cannot go inside and see him. She had wanted a different sort of “negotiations” at first, but Davos had insisted that neither her nor Jon would make it out alive if she defied them, and as much it pains her to admit, he’s right.

Her brother and her sister are on their way from Winterfell now and with both of them here alongside the strength of the Northern forces behind them, it’ll only be a matter of time.

Arya cannot wait to be rid of this place. To be away from this desolate ruin of a city. She only ever enters through its destroyed gates to accompany Jon, but even then, she wishes that she could do so without seeing and smelling the destruction that Daenerys Targaryen had left in her wake.

Madness, the Northmen called it. Just like her father. Worse than her father. She _is_ her father. Arya doesn’t know what to call it. What the dragon queen had done. All she knows is that her brother doesn’t deserve it, the pain of having to kill the person he’d loved and believed in with his entirety.

“I’m sorry she hadn’t been what you thought she was,” Arya says at last, her voice filling the heavy quiet. “I thought she would be better than Cersei. I guess she’s not, after all.”

When Jon doesn’t reply, Arya goes on, “Ser Davos says there will be a trial for you and Tyrion Lannister. They’re summoning all the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms here to Kings Landing to decide your fate and the realm’s.”

“None of it matters,” he says.

“What do you mean none of it matters?” Arya says sharply. “Of course it does. I’ll be part of it, and Sansa and Bran too. We won’t let them harm you, Jon. I swear it.”

“Perhaps I deserve it.”

Arya sits up and hits the bolted door with her palm. The Unsullied sentries turn their heads at her, clutching their spears, but she ignores them.

“You don’t deserve it,” she snaps at him. “You don’t deserve any of this. You did what you had to do. You knew who she was and what she was going to do and even if it almost killed you, you did it anyway. For the sake of every living person in Westeros and for the ones after.”

“I know.”

His sad, defeated voice hurts Arya more than she thought it will. With her hand still resting on the door, she imagines her brother behind it. Forlorn, hurting, broken. She wishes she could kick the damn door down and hold him just like how he did when they were children and she had been crying in anger and frustration at Septa Mordane or Sansa or sometimes even her mother, and Jon was the only one who listened – really listened.

“Maester Aemon was wrong,” he muses, sadly. “Love isn’t the death of duty. Duty is the death of love. If only I had known then.”

“You couldn’t have,” Arya says, her voice unyielding. “No one could have. Not even Bran. It’s not your fault.”

Arya doesn’t think her brother will respond after the long silence that followed but then she hears him whisper, “Thank you, little sister. For keeping me alive.”

Arya knows he means it more than just now, more than her visiting him every day. She’s kept him alive all these years when he was beyond the wall and fighting to survive just as much as he did her all the way here in Kings Landing, on the Kings Road with Gendry and Hot Pie, on the road with The Hound, in Braavos, and back here in Westeros upon her return.

Jon has always been her anchor, her heart, her strength. Despite of everything, he’s loved her and never once forgotten about her.

Arya closes her eyes and leans her forehead on the rough timber frame and tells him what she’s longed to say to him out loud, “I love you, brother.”

**~**

Arya jerks awake, her heart beating frantically as she tries to catch her breath.

A dream. That same dream.

Daenerys Targaryen on the back of the dragon. Men, women, and children bleeding, burning, screaming.

And her running, and running, and running.

She rubs at her face, sitting up on her bedroll. The heavy furs covering her falls on her lap and the draft coming in through the tent slats makes her shiver underneath her shift. She runs a hand through her hair and tries to keep her breathing steady.

It’s a few hours until dawn. She walks over to the small basin and gingerly washes her face awake. She stokes the fire and gets dressed, pulling on the leather doublet over her tunic and pants. She ties her hair up, braiding it down its length. She wears the same grey skirt over her pants, held up by her double-tied belt, and her tall boots, scuffed and dirtied after her escape through Kings Landing, are all cleaned up now, rebuffed thanks to their armourer. She can’t deny how eager she is for Sansa’s arrival, bringing along fresh sets of clothes for her.

She arms herself with Needle and her Valyrian steel dagger before throwing her fur cape over it all and slipping outside.

Last time she had been at Kings Landing, it was still summer. The heat had been oppressive, she remembers, and she hated not having any pools or rivers around to sneak a swim in like she used to back in Winterfell.

Not that she contemplated on diving into any kind of body of water right now. It may not be as cold as it is up North but the chill, coupled with the happenings of the past few weeks, is enough to make her shiver throughout the night.

She acknowledges some of the Northmen as she passes, weaving her way through the tents dotting across the surrounds of the city walls and spreading out towards the Blackwater Rush. A part of the Northern encampment is settled around the Kings Gate and further towards the Mud Gate by the water. Arya had decided to stay among them since it’s closer to the Red Keep where Jon is being held but also because she likes the sound of the water lapping up against the shore.

It helps her think, breathe. An escape from the nightmares that she cannot elude. If only they’re as easy to quieten with a blade.

She walks towards the fire pit that some of the men had dug up just for her, much to her gratefulness, and frowns upon noticing someone already there. She squints, trying to make out who it is. A man, from the looks of it. Maybe one of the Northmen who can’t sleep during the nights too.

She doesn’t lighten her footsteps, afraid that sneaking up on them may frighten them, but the closer she got, the more she wished that she had. That shaven hair, those strong shoulders, the broad back…

“Gendry,” she breathes.

He stands up abruptly, his breathing heavy as he takes her in. Ser Davos must’ve told him where she would be at this hour.

He looks at her as if she’s an apparition, an illusion. But she is there. They both are.

“Arya.” He moves towards her, slowly, as if at any moment, she would turn on her heels and run. He stops a few feet away, his eyes still looking her over.

What can she say to him that would explain her leaving him without saying goodbye? That she hadn’t meant to hurt him, she’d only wanted him to forget her because she knew she was going to meet her end here in this very city where they first met?

“It’s good to see you.” She may not be able to explain it right now, but the least she can do is to let him know how much she means it. How much it means to her to see him alive and well.

Her words spurs him into action, surprising her, as he takes the last few steps towards her and envelops her in his arms. He holds her to him, tight, unyielding, and pressed against his beating heart. He lets her go only to cup her face with his hands and look her over, his brows furrowed in concern.

“You’re alright,” he says, as if to confirm to himself that she really is alive. Arya nods her head, unable to look away from his face. “I heard what happened.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t believe it.”

He slides his hands down to her shoulders as he looks towards the city and tries to picture what Kings Landing will look like in broad daylight. If there really is only rubble and ruin.

“You won’t like what you’re going to see,” Arya says.

“I imagine I won’t.”

Arya is still peering up at his face, annoyingly handsome and yet a little dazed. The breeze sends a wave of his scent towards her and he smells comfortingly of pine and leather and that hint of steel.

He looks back down at her, meeting her eyes before he straightens. An unspoken question arises in those blue eyes. She ignores it as she sweeps him a look before saying, “You look good.”

He lets out a small laugh and gestures to his new fitted attire.

“I have to admit, it’s a little uncomfortable.”

Arya shakes her head with a smile.

“It suits you,” she says, “Lord Baratheon.”

She doesn’t miss the frown at her calling him his title but there is no anger in his face at what could’ve been when he first told her about his legitimisation. What he had asked of her. His eyes doesn’t stray from hers as he takes her in his arms again. A rush of emotions churn deep within Arya as he holds her and as she feels his lips on her hair. She winds her arms around his back, his warmth seeping into her, and pulls him closer like she can meld him into her and they become nothing but a solid mass of beating hearts.

It surprises her, the way her knees tremble and she almost loses her balance, but his hold doesn’t waver. His arms hold her steady to him, his hands splayed over her back and her side, digging in to her as if at any moment she will disappear.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there, by the low-light of the burning fire and the sounds of the crashing waves against the shore. She doesn’t want to know really, doesn’t care. And she wants to be afraid of what this means, of _feeling_ , knowing that not much good had ever come for her family when it came to loving someone. Her heart strains when he says, “I’m sorry, Arya.”

She pulls back. “I’m the one who should apologise,” she tells him. “I left because I didn’t know if I was going to survive. I thought it was going to be easier. For you. For Sansa. And for my brothers.”

“I guess I didn’t really help either, asking you to become a lady and all,” he says. “Scared you right out of Winterfell, didn’t I?”

Arya laughs, the sound surprising Gendry. It was pleasant, soft. He realises it’s been so long since he’s heard it that he can’t even remember the last time he did.

“I meant what I said,” Arya says, “of you being a wonderful lord. We need more people like you after all this death.”

“More people like me?” Arya knows he’s teasing her now and she shakes her head at him.

“More people like you, Gendry,” she repeats, her eyes challenging him to understand her meaning, her seriousness. He lowers his head a little sheepishly before motioning to a spot near the fire.

“Yeah well, I wouldn’t really be here if it weren’t for you,” he says with a smile. He watches as Arya settles on the sand, her arms stretched behind her.

“Yeah, you do owe me your life, Gendry Baratheon,” she goads as he settles next to her. “I did save this bloody continent from the damn Night King.”

**~**

They spend a few blessed hours in each other’s company by the shore before deciding to head back to the encampment. Arya shares her journey from Winterfell to Kings Landing with Sandor and what she went through inside the city as Daenerys Targaryen burnt it to its foundations. Gendry doesn’t say much about his own journey to the Stormlands, too fixated on her, but promises to tell her all about it afterwards.

They make their way back to the encampment where they see Ser Davos waiting for them.

“I trust you’re both hungry,” he tells them as he sits them down inside his tent where some food’s been laid out on a table. They sit beside each other and help themselves to the thick barley and venison soup. Ser Davos can’t help but watch them sup together as he sits across from them.

Arya eats less like a lady as she unceremoniously pulls the oatbread apart and dips it in the stew but Gendry doesn’t seem to notice as he does the same. He’ll refill their goblets with ale and hand her another piece of oatbread or fruit without the girl even asking.

Amusement glitters in Davos’ eyes. “You’re both a sight, aren’t you.”

Gendry blinks but Arya simply shrugs. Davos notices the way Gendry would often glance at the young woman beside him but Arya would meet his eyes and smile back at him too.

Perhaps he is wrong and the girl is as attached to Gendry just as much as he is to her albeit a little more withdrawn.

“I’m guessing you’d want to go and see the city?” Davos asks Gendry. Arya clears her throat with ale as she looks at him, awaiting his response. He nods.

“It won’t be much of a stroll,” he says, “but I’d like to…see it.”

“It’s not a pretty sight, lad. The street of steel, Fleabottom. Nothing but ruins now.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Perhaps afterwards you and your men would want to accompany us at River Row. Some of the Northmen are distributing grains and provisions to the survivors. They could use as many hands as they could get.”

Gendry nods, pleasantly surprised at that. Arya had mentioned that she hadn’t been too happy seeing some of the Northmen join in on the chaos with the Unsullied and the Dothraki but, he garners, war is war. Sometimes the most civilised of people can turn into wild animals lusting for blood. Perhaps this is a way for them to make up for their lack of self-control.

“I’ll be there. I’ll round up the men when I get back.”

Arya licks her fingers and is about to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand when Gendry tosses her a rag.

“Where are you going?” he asks her, hoping that she’ll come and accompany him.

“To see Jon,” she replies. She stands up and smirks at his fallen expression. “Don’t worry, I’m still waiting on you to tell me what happened to you so you won’t be rid of me yet.”

Davos lets out a small chuckle as the young lady disappears behind the tent flaps. The lad’s in trouble, he knows it, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to establish their dynamic for now so this one's a little bit slow but omg that was so satisfying to write them together again * tears * Be prepared for a little more angst, but lots more loving between the two coz THEY FUDGING DESERVE IT. Thanks for all the loveeee xxx


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mature content (not explicit but see change of ratings).

“What are you thinking about?” Arya asks him.

“You.”

Arya frowns at him but he’s looking away, upwards at the illuminated sky, a smirk on his stupid face.

“I’m serious, Gendry.”

He chuckles as he turns his attention to her. The light from the burning fire illuminating his eyes. “I am serious.”

They stare at each other for a few moments before Arya breaks contact.

“Alright then, what about me are you thinking about?” she challenges, quirking her eyebrow.

“Everything. All at once.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “I can’t make sense of it. Of you. So, I think about you all at once.”

“That still makes no sense.” Gendry lets out a half exasperated half amused chuckle.

“All these years and you’re still such a huge pain in my ass,” he tells her. Arya rolls her eyes.

“I’m not the one who can’t talk properly. Gods Gendry, how are you even a lord?” She laughs, shaking her head.

“It’s good that I’m not then, isn’t it?” He stretches out on his back on the sand, tucking an arm behind his head.

“Daenerys may be dead but you are still Robert Baratheon’s blood,” she reminds him. “Storm’s End is rightfully yours.”

“Just as your brother’s the rightful heir to the throne?”

After the devastation of Kings Landing, Daenerys dying and Jon being taken as prisoner, it hasn’t occurred to Arya that Jon _is_ the legitimate heir to the Iron Throne. But then again, she thinks rather dumbly, there isn’t an Iron Throne any longer. Besides, Jon’s never wanted it. Never has. If – no, _when_ – he is exonerated, she doubts that he’ll want to take up the mantle of kingship if it’s ever offered to him.

Gendry likes the way her eyebrows furrow together when she’s deep in thought. There’s something calculated in the seriousness of her gaze as she tries to makes sense of things.

She’s sharp, intelligent, and often overlooked. And yet time and time and again, she would prove herself. That she’s Arya Stark of Winterfell, the little wolf of the North, daughter of Eddard Stark, youngest sister of then King in the North Robb Stark, and – like the gods have fashioned it since that fateful day they first saw each other – the one whom his entire heart belonged to.

“Arya-“

“Why did you come to Winterfell?”

He blinks. “I told you that Ser Davos came and got me in Kings Landing and-“

“Why were you so ready to leave?”

There’s no snark in her tone, just genuine curiosity as she looks across to him, her brown hair gilded by the campfire.

“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “All I knew is that something was coming and I was ready for it ever since.”

He sees in her face that she doesn’t understand so he sits up and shuffles closer to her.

“I wasn’t going to stay in Kings Landing forever.”

“Why not?” She tips her head back to study his face. “You were safe right under their nose and no one gave you a second look. You wait a few more years and you could’ve been a master smith yourself. And you know, started a family.”

Surely he must’ve thought about it, Arya thinks. When he had been taken away by the Red Woman, she wasn’t sure if she was ever going to see him again and though she had been hopeful that she would, she had resigned herself to hoping that he had been alive instead. And had found himself in a safe place, alive and well.

“Because I didn’t want to,” he responds.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know I…” he shrugs, letting out a breath through his mouth. “I just felt like there was still something coming. _Someone_.” He looks at her then, smiling sadly.

“When Ser Davos freed me, I tried to look for you, hoping that you were still alive somewhere. Knowing you, you must’ve found a way. I couldn’t find the brotherhood but I asked around until someone told me that you had been found by The Hound. I didn’t stay to listen to the rest, I just knew that I had to go and get to you somehow.”

“You thought he took me to Kings Landing,” she continues for him. He nods.

“And when I got there, I heard that there was a bounty on Clegane’s head and last they heard of him, he was at the Eyrie. I knew then that he must be taking you to your brother. But then the Red Wedding happened and...”

Gendry hates this memory, she feels it, sees it, as his eyes glisten in the firelight.

“I wanted to find you to tell you how sorry I was that I chose the brotherhood over you. That all that time, all I wanted was to be your family. When you asked me, I wanted to say yes, Arya. Believe me, I did. And even if I didn’t deserve you because you’re a highborn and I’m a lowborn, at least I could be there with you somehow. With someone I cared for and someone who cared for me too.”

She feels the despair and pain emanate from Gendry. He’s never had a family. Unlike him, she had Jon to live for, even if he had been so far away from her at that time. And she had a mother and a father and brothers and a sister. She had people that loved her, cared for her – a memory of a home that she could come back to.

But he’s never had anyone in his entire life. His mother died when he was young, he grew up under a master who cared nothing for him and sold him to the watch when he got bored. All his life, he’s wanted to belong, to have a family. To have someone love him and care for him. And when they found each other and he became a Baratheon of Storm’s End, he must’ve thought that he was finally worthy of her – of being her family.

Arya reaches out and brushes his cheek with the back of her hand. She wants to comfort him, to let him know that she does care. That she cares about him so much.

He closes his eyes at its warmth, leaning his head to kiss her fingers as they brush past his lips. Before she knows it, her lips are on his. She kisses him softly, unhurried. She angles her body closer to his and she brings her hands up to hold the sides of his face.

Gendry wraps his arms around her and pulls her towards him, her hands still holding his face as their kiss deepen. They are lost in each other’s warmth.

Gendry wants her. His entire body yearning to have her again as he tugs her closer to him, their lips never parting. He feels her hands drop to the buckles of his leathers and begin to loosen them.

“Arya,” he groans into her mouth as he pulls back and holds her from him. She’s breathing heavily as she looks at him confused as to why he stopped.

“We should get inside.”

**~**

Outside, the wind is howling.

They don’t bother exchanging words as they take their cloaks and their boots off and they make their way to her bedroll. She unbuckles her sword belt and her leather doublet and she reaches between them to remove his.

Gendry lets her. Lets her peel off his leathers, then his undershirt beneath. He rests his forehead on hers as he tugs on the strings of her pants. Revealing the scars that cover the skin across her abdomen and sides.

Arya watches as he takes them in, his breathing heavy, glowering at them. He’s angry, she knows it, by the way his nostrils flare up. He knows he wouldn’t have been able to kill the waif but he would’ve liked to have tried. To cave her skull in with his hammer so hard that Arya wouldn’t have been able to retrieve her face.

He runs his fingers over the scars and she shivers beneath his touch. She moves to straddle his lap but he stops her as he takes her mouth against his. She holds the side of his face with one hand while the other wraps around his shoulders as he lifts her in his strong arms and lays her on her back on the bedroll.

He kisses his way down her collarbone and her breasts, softly nipping and nuzzling as she arches, surprising herself at the way her body just _moves_. He reaches her stomach, to the scars peppered all across her abdomen and he says her name over and over, like a mantra, as he kisses every single one.

Ever since he saw them during their first time, Gendry hadn’t stopped thinking about them. Everything had been so fast, a big blur, when she first had him that he didn’t get a chance to even run his hands over them. But now, he does. And he savours every one.

She had told him about Braavos and the House of Black and White and how she almost died by that waif’s hands if she hadn’t been faster, smarter, and trained to see in the dark. He chuckles upon recalling as he reaches her navel, and he lingers on the skin there as he breathes his thanks to every one of the gods that she is here, with him, and alive.

Growing impatient, Arya reaches for him, digging into his shoulders, and Gendry rises over her and takes her mouth in his. She winds her arms around his back, loving how strong he is and yet how soft his lips are against hers.

She wants him. Gods, she wants him so bad. Every touch of his skin on hers is like fire, burning her, but a pleasurable kind that she wants to feel over and over again.

They forget everything and everyone around them. They forget about what had happened and what could happen as they move, savouring each other. Arya allows herself to feel every inch of his body pressed against her, Gendry too, keenly obliging as he moves with her, in her, their breathing hard as they groan against each other’s lips.

They let go as they hold on to each other. Loving each other. Over and over and over.

And this time, it’s not a goodbye.

**~**

Arya’s breathing is as ragged as Gendry’s. She can barely get enough air as she gazes at the tent ceiling. Gendry lying on top of her, as spent as she is, can only manage to nuzzle her chest as he tries to catch his breath.

They stay like that for a while. She runs a hand idly across his broad back, tracing the groove of his muscles, while the other massages his head, loving the rough feel of it underneath her fingers.

She wishes she can stay like this forever. With him holding her and her having him all to herself. She knows that Sandor had wanted this for her. To live, _really live_. But she knows that he’s a lord now. That he’s got responsibilities. And she doesn’t know if she’s ready to _really_ live _and_ be a lady. Even if it’s his lady. At least, not now.

He shuffles a bit and looks up at her, his blue eyes lingering on her face as she looks down to meet his eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks her.

“You,” she replies. He laughs as he pushes up on his arms and takes her lips again before moving to lay beside her. She moans at the lack of warmth when he draws up the blankets around them both and pulls her tightly against him, wounding his arms around her body. He presses a kiss against her temple.

“Don’t you think it’s funny how we’re here now?” she asks. “You know, doing _this_.”

Gendry chuckles, his fingers idly stroking her sides.

“Yeah, not that much,” he replies, grinning.

“I didn’t know a few years, new clothes and a bit of an attitude can you get pretty excited.”

“Have you _seen_ you?” He shakes his head incredulously. “Besides, you've always had an attitude. Less chatty, maybe, but still. And I’ve known you longer than I’ve ever known anybody.”

“And knowing someone for that long counts as attractive?”

“When it’s you, yes. Yes it is.”

Gendry tells her how fascinated he had been when they first saw each other again. She talked differently and moved differently, a kind of confidence (especially with how she handled those weapons) that got him thinking his breeches must be tighter than usual, which earned him a pinch to his side. He tells her how surprised he had been at his attraction to her but, he says rather lamely, it wasn’t hard _not to_ when she looks like that.

“I mean you looked nice before, but now, you look nicer. Beautiful.”

“You’re terrible at this.” She laughs. “Tell me how did you get three women to sleep with you again?”

“Pity, probably.”

They hold each other for a long while, talking and basking in each other’s warmth. An hour or two must’ve passed and his eyes are slowly closing, sleep calling to him when he hears her whisper, “Gendry.”

“Yeah?”

“I want to be with you.”

She doesn’t know what to expect since she had hurt him by refusing him before. But maybe, just maybe, they can somehow work things out between them.

She continues before he can respond, “I know I said that I’m not a lady and I meant it but-“

“Then it’s good that I’m not a lord either.”

Arya lifts herself off him and leans on her arm, peering at his sleepy face.

“Why do you keep saying you’re not a lord?” she asks. “You came here with your men from the Stormlands, didn’t you? You’re here to speak on behalf of them at the council _as their lord_.”

He holds her stare, his fingers running idle circles around her back. Her mouth tightens, waiting for his response.

So Gendry says softly, “None of it would be worth anything if you’re not with me.”

Arya frowns, ready to argue with him but he continues, “Besides, the Stormlands already has a lord. Although unofficially. He was the castellan of Storm’s End and has served my father and his brothers ever since. When I arrived under my father’s name, he had been happy to welcome me as his lord. But after spending a few weeks there, I knew that he was a far better choice than I was. And no, I know I can learn. But, it just didn’t seem right for me to be there and disrupt the good that he is already doing. So, I told him that even if I am Robert Baratheon’s blood, I will name him lord of Storm’s End and he can rule over my stead.”

Arya’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“But you’re here,” she says. “You’re representing the Stormlands and…”

Gendry grins at her bewilderment and he can’t help himself – not when she’s looking at him like that – so he leans forward to brush her lips with his.

“Aye, I am,” he says. “As an ambassador. It was Davos’ idea. I was gonna come here anyway, might as well do something good for the Stormlands while I’m at it.”

The words would have knocked her on her knees if she isn’t already lying down. Gendry grins.

“I’m still Gendry Baratheon,” he continues. “And he has promised that anytime I want to go back, I will always have a place in Storm’s End. The Stormlands and its people will always welcome me as their own, and anything I may need, I can come to them. I told them to continue living the best life they could have and that I hope to represent them as best I can in the council that’ll decide the realm’s fate and theirs.”

They stare at each other for minutes, Arya in complete disbelief.

“What are you going to do afterwards?” she finally asks, breaking the silence.

He gives her a wide, almost-predatory smile as he pushes himself upwards and rolls her on her back. Her wide, grey eyes stare at him in surprise at his catching her off-guard. He leans down. “I don’t know, depends on what you’re doing afterwards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pillow talk is where it's at, you know? ;D Also, stuff it, but Hot Pie's going to make an appearance. Mark my words.  
> Thanks for all the love and I hope you're all liking it so far. This is the gendrya endgame I am living in...and there's more chaps to go too! <3


	9. Chapter 9

The council members arrive in a trickle, spread between days and a few weeks. Sansa and Bran arrive earlier than expected, having taken the ships from White Harbour instead of the Kings Road. Travelling by sea would’ve been easier and much more comfortable for Bran, she supposes, as she gives her brother a long hug.

Sansa envelops Arya in her arms upon seeing her, clutching her so tightly and kissing her forehead long enough for Arya to squirm.

“You’ve never done that before,” she mumbles on her sister’s chest as she squeezes her.

“Yeah well, get used to it,” Sansa replies. She lets go of Arya only to look at her with eyes glistening with tears. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

Arya smiles at her sister sadly, knowing it must’ve hurt her to hear that she had gone without saying goodbye. She squeezes her hands.

“I’m sorry about not saying anything,” Arya says.

Sansa shakes her head at her, a smile on her lips. “Just don’t do it again.”

Arya smirks. “No promises.”

**~**

The evening before the council meet, Sansa visits Arya in her tent.

“In here,” Arya calls out to her sister.

Sansa enters the warm tent and sees her sister by the small hearth looking oddly dishevelled as she reclines on one of the chairs wrapped in her furs.

Her eyes widen upon approach when she hears someone softly snoring and turns to see a lump on Arya’s bedroll covered under the furs. She stares at Arya like she’s grown a wolf tail.

“It’s just Gendry,” Arya says with a small laugh. Sansa gives her a questioning look.

“We made up,” Arya shrugs.

“You sure did,” Sansa says with a knowing look as she takes the chair beside her.

Arya pours them wine and they sit in silence. Arya knows her sister didn’t come to see her just to discuss the trial. Being back in Kings Landing, even if it had been almost thoroughly destroyed to the ground, still brings back terrible memories of the last time they had been here. Arya had told Gendry about it – Syrio Forel and the wooden sword he held against Meryn Trant. Her by Baelor’s statue watching her father up on the platform with Joffrey, and Cersei and Sansa. The sounds of the people calling for her father’s head. Seeing his headless body being dragged out of view.

She reaches out to clasp Sansa’s hand in hers. She squeezes back, gratefulness etched in her Tully-blue eyes.

“I don’t suppose they’ll let Jon go without a fight,” Arya muses.

“We have the support of the other houses along with the Northern forces,” Sansa says. “If they’re wise, they will let him go without one.”

Arya hums her agreement. “And Winterfell?”

“The reparations are slow since most of the men are here. But it’s going. You should have been there when Lord Glover came begging for forgiveness.”

Arya snorts. “I hope you told him to eat shit.”

“Oh, he’s getting what he deserves.”

Arya’s mouth twitches towards a smile. “You’re more ruthless than I could ever be.”

Of the many years they had been away from each other, and the many lessons they have learnt, seeing Sansa rise above every man and woman who had ever wronged her makes Arya prouder than she would ever admit. But she’s starting to.

They hear Gendry shift to his back, ruffling under the covers, the sound so unnervingly domestic that Sansa can’t help but grin at her little sister. Arya rolls her eyes. Sansa doesn’t miss the fond look her sister throws Gendry’s way before turning back to her.

“You were right about Daenerys,” Arya muses.

“She’s a tyrant just like her father.”

“I hoped she was different.”

“Why?”

“Because not every Targaryen is mad,” Arya replies, staring at the contents of the dark liquid in her goblet. “Jon trusted her. He told me that she freed the slaves in Essos in the free cities of Astapor and Yunkai and renamed Slaver’s Bay to the Bay of Dragons. Surely a woman of justice would have more compassion for the common people.”

Sansa frowns. “Not everyone is as they seem on the outside, Arya. Especially when things don’t go their way.”

“She’s lost people that she cared for,” Arya says. “Just like you and me.”

“You spared those who were innocent when you enacted your revenge against the Freys,” Sansa argues. “Daenerys didn’t. She could’ve gone straight to the Red Keep for Cersei and _just_ Cersei. But she didn’t, did she?”

Arya takes another swig of wine. She doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It hurts too much to think about – what the repercussions are for her family, for Jon, and for the realm.

Sansa watches her sister, her expression hard, thinking. She knows that she’s thinking about their brother. How painful it must be for him to have to do his duty for the good of the realm. How many more people in their family must suffer for a war that was never theirs, for ambitions that they never wanted?

“We won’t let anything happen to Jon,” Sansa tells her, gripping her hands in hers this time. Tomorrow will be the day where everything will be decided. Where everything will be different. Where the tyrants and the mad men and the killers and the usurpers and the Iron Throne that began it all are all gone. A new start. For all of them. For the North, for the realm, and for the Starks.

Arya’s expression softens at her sister.

“No, we won’t.”

**~**

“This is ridiculous.” Ser Davos hands Gendry a long sword to accompany his attire for the council meeting. “I don’t even know how to use one.”

“It’s just for show, lad,” Davos says.

“I’d rather have a war-hammer if we do end up fighting in the pits,” he mumbles.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

He tightens the cords on his leather-brown doublet, matching the russet colours of those worn in the North. It has a strange design across its shoulders: three lines running down on either side resembling claw marks of sorts. Gendry hadn’t known who to ask about it since it had been packed away for the journey to Kings Landing but, he thinks rather amusedly, it looks a bit like the claw marks of a wolf. He wonders what Arya will think when she sees them.

Gendry’s never been to the dragon pit despite having lived in Kings Landing all his life and he can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place. A desolate ruin that once housed the mighty dragons of House Targaryen, it now stands open to the elements, each day, month, year, carving away at its very existence, its power.

A platform has been razed over the central pit where a canvas tent has been laid out for the Great Council. Some of the great lords and ladies are already seated and Gendry, walking alongside Ser Davos, feels rather out of place as he takes his seat amongst them.

The Starks arrive with a retinue of Northmen escorting them. Arya’s pushing her little brother Bran while Sansa walks beside them, all looking solemn. Ser Brienne takes her place next to Davos while a man Gendry doesn’t know sits to his left. He acknowledges him with a curt nod.

His gaze lingers on Arya, who gives him a small smile before taking her place with her siblings. Ser Davos leads the introductions but by the end of it, Gendry’s already forgotten half of their names and the houses they represent. He just hopes they don’t question him further about his being there. He already feels out of place as it is.

When the Unsullied commander arrives with only Tyrion, Gendry knows that this council might not begin as peacefully as he and Davos had hoped it would be. Gendry knows that Arya and her siblings won’t approve of the commander’s disregard for the trial that was agreed upon. He steals a glance towards her and sees her frowning in anger and confusion.

“Where’s Jon?” Sansa demands.

“He is our prisoner.”

“So is Lord Tyrion. They were both to be brought to this gathering.”

“We will decide what we do with our prisoners. This is our city now.”

Arya evens her breathing. What are they playing at? They can’t possibly think that they can hold Jon in that damn keep forever, can they? She’ll kill all of them, she swears it she will, before they could even _think_ of harming him.

“If you look outside the walls of _your city_ , you will find thousands of Northmen who will explain to you why harming Jon Snow is not in your interest,” Sansa threatens.

“And you will find thousands of Unsullied who believe that it is.”

Before Arya can say what she wants to say, Yara Greyjoy speaks up, “Some of you may be quick to forgive. The Ironborn are not. I swore to follow Daenerys Targaryen.”

“You swore to follow a tyrant,” Sansa interrupts.

“She _freed_ us from a tyrant.”

Gendry and Davos share a look of concern as the two women glare at each other in complete contempt.

“Cersei is gone because of her and Jon Snow put a knife in her heart. Let the Unsullied give him what he deserves,” Yara spits.

Arya turns a steely gaze towards the woman and with a deathly voice says, “Say another word about killing my brother and I’ll cut your throat.”

Davos stands abruptly, determined to impede any form of bloodshed amongst those gathered. Gendry regards Arya from where he sits, completely drawn to this fierce and unbelievably attractive woman before him as she surveys the Greyjoy woman mercilessly. Gods, he wants to pick her up and take her to his bed this very instant. The gathering be damned, even if he can just kiss her, he’ll be sate. _Such a huge pain in my ass_. He shakes his head, drawing his attention back to Davos as he addresses Grey Worm and the rest of the council.

The meeting concludes quite swiftly though not without its complications given the circumstances.

“And what about Jon?” Arya asks, every eye on her.

“Justice demands his head,” Grey Worm replies.

“If you harm my brother, you will not see another day,” Arya threatens the same time Sansa speaks out, “Release our brother to us.”

“You have taken one prisoner, a traitor to our queen and have made him Hand. We will not release another one to you.”

Arya stands ready to brandish her steel with Gendry springing into action, holding his arm out to hold Arya back with Brienne following, a hand on her sword. Grey Worm wraps a hand on the hilt of his knife.

“My king,” Tyrion pleads the youngest Stark.

“Grey Worm, Arya,” Bran says. Grey Worm lifts his chin and turns to the young king while Arya, her eyes simmering with hate, resigns to do so also. Bran turns to both his siblings. “I cannot free Jon,” he says and turns to Grey Worm, “but I will not let you have his head either.”

“We deserve justice!”

“And you will receive it,” Bran says, unperturbed by his fierce anger. Gendry doesn’t move away from Arya and neither does Brienne.

“Jon has served Daenerys and loved her,” Bran says, addressing those gathered. “He has served the Night’s Watch faithfully and died doing so. He returned to fight the war of the dead, an enemy that would have destroyed all of us, and fought for Daenerys believing that she will be the queen that will end the tyranny of Cersei Lannister.” Bran looks at Grey Worm. “Daenerys has served the realm by helping us defeat the Night King and Cersei Lannister. And Jon has served the realm by ridding us of Daenerys, whom we all believed would be better than her father. Daenerys has served the realm with her life, and Jon will also.”

Sansa and Arya look at their brother, alarm and genuine fear etched on their faces at what he can possible decree against their brother.

“Jon is a faithful servant of the realm and has already died once in this service,” Bran continues. Every eye is on him, everyone waiting with abated breath. “But he will not share the same fate twice.”

Before Grey Worm could protest, he continues, “Jon Snow will be banished to the Night’s Watch and serve his purpose there for as long as he draws breath. There will be no watchers on the wall, but it will stand as a place for those who have committed crimes against the realm and its people. Jon will hold no lands, have no wife, and bear no children, for as long as he lives.”

Arya closes her eyes, feeling as if someone has just stabbed her in the chest with her own knife. Her brother, banished beyond the wall. She glances at her sister and sees her turmoil but she knows that they are powerless to do anything else. Bran needs to make peace between them and this is the way to do so.

She closes her eyes and breathes out, nodding her assent. Sansa looks away, angry and defeated, but she agrees also. Grey Worm folds his hands behind his back, clearly not too enthusiastic about this verdict either. He nods his head curtly. “We accept.”

**~**

Arya storms onto a spit of beach on the far side of the rush. She knows that if she doesn’t get the hell out of this stupid city for an hour or two, she may very well explode. Behind her, Gendry’s steps are as loud as the waves crashing against the shore.

He had been there when Tyrion had called in a meeting between her, Sansa, Bran and Grey Worm regarding Jon’s release. Grey Worm had demanded another month in their custody and of course, her and Sansa had refused. But Bran had kept peace, allowing Grey Worm another two weeks, ample time for Tyrion to make known to every house in the continent of what had transpired in the gathering as well as the demise of Jon Snow.

Now, standing on the empty beach before the glittering expanse of the sea as the sun turns bright orange in its descent, Gendry says to her, “I’m sorry about Jon.”

There is no pity in his voice. Just pure care – and concern. She wants to be angry at him, at everyone, _especially_ her little brother, but she knows that it’s better than not having Jon alive at all. She sighs.

“Thank you for being there,” she breathes. Gendry takes a step closer, the crashing of waves and the cries of the gulls filling the space between them. “I’ll always be here for you,” he says gently.

“Where will we go when Jon goes to the Wall?” she asks dryly. “When Bran stays here in Kings Landing and Sansa goes back to Winterfell?” Arya thought she was angry at having to be separated from Jon again but deep inside, she knows that she’s more hurt than anything.

_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives_ , her father had said. But now they’re to be separated again, every one of them so far from each other and with her not knowing where she’s placed amidst it all. What will she do? Where will she go?

Gendry closes the gap between them, touching his shoulder with hers.

“Anywhere and everywhere,” he says, his eyes glinting. “Wherever you want to go.”

A half smile. “And you’ll come along and follow me. Just like that?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

Arya lets him pivot her in the sand to face him fully and he smiles at her, his eyes so bright and welcoming and comforting amidst the pain of being separated from her siblings yet again.

“You sure you won’t regret being with me?” she whispers, her voice almost inaudible against the loud crash of the waves.

“You’re my family,” he tells her, his gaze fixed on hers. “The only family I ever wanted.” He lets her see what lies truly and deeply in his heart. Nothing and no one matters without her. Not his lordship, not belonging to a family he never knew. Nothing and no one but her and only her. The only true family he’s ever belonged to, has ever known, and ever wants to belong to.

“I am yours, Arya Stark,” he says, kneeling before her again. “My life, my heart, my weapon, and the weapons you’ll probably force me to make you. It all belongs to you.”

Arya swallows, unable to comprehend this man before her, laying his life for her again. He takes her hand and brushes his lips on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. “I love you. And I promise, on the old gods and the new, that I will never leave you. And if you’ll have me, I’ll be yours to command, my lady.”

She chuckles at his teasing as she kneels down to his level and cups his face with her hands, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I love you, Gendry,” she tells him, leaning forward to kiss him lightly on the lips. “I have been for a while now and I know I always will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter *sniffs* I love these two with all my heart. Excited to wrap their story up in the next chapter with lots more loving between them now that they've chosen each other (IT'S WHAT THEY DESERVE) and they go off on their travels. Expect to see them travelling together, saying bye to Jon, Sansa's coronation and Hot Pie and maybe jealous Gendry, ooft it'll be wild. Might even do a separate fic for some of their travels too but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's get to the last chap first. Thanks for allll the love, I adore you all xx


	10. Chapter 10

An hour past dawn, Arya makes her way to one of the ports in Blackwater Bay. Her and Sansa had been preoccupied with the proceedings following Bran’s coronation as king and the Northmen readying to march out of Kings Landing and back up to the wintry North that they all call home. Gendry had officially rescinded his title as Lord of Storm’s End and had to ride back to Storm’s End to make known what had occurred at the gathering.

They parted the day before, Gendry a little annoyed that he had to leave her but Arya had assured him that she’ll be in Kings Landing when he returned.

Ser Davos accompanied Gendry under orders from Bran as well as Brienne under Sansa’s. Selwyn Tarth had sent ravens asking about his daughter and it seemed an opportune time to do so as the newly-minted Captain of the Kingsguard.

Arya sees her sister standing tall next to their brother and she makes her way towards them. When they spot Jon, Arya feels both elated and utterly destroyed. He looks so…wretched. His hair’s been cut shorter and is untied, the black curls billowing just above his shoulders. His northern furs blow behind him as he approaches them.

Arya situates herself between her siblings, unable to look away from Jon who gives them a sad, sweeping look. It’s Sansa who speaks first.

“I wish there’d been another way,” she says, her voice shaking. “Can you forgive me?”

Arya looks at her sister, watches as her eyes brim with tears. She knows that Sansa had betrayed their brother’s trust with keeping the secret of his heritage from anyone but their family. When Tyrion Lannister found out, he had told Varys and Varys had conspired against the dragon queen, ultimately leading to his death and the events that unfolded after. It hadn’t been easy for Sansa to hear the repercussions of what she had done but Arya reassured her sister that in the end, it had been for the best. _Everything happens for a reason._

“The North is free thanks to you,” Jon says after a while.

Sansa’s eyes lower. “But they lost their king.”

“Ned Stark’s daughter’ll speak for them,” Jon says with a sad smile. “She’s the best they could ask for.”

Jon had told Arya how much it hurt him to know of what Sansa had done but he had forgiven her long after. They’re bound by blood and by love. Nothing now could separate them from their bond. As Ned Stark’s children always.

Sansa’s face crumples into despair as she envelops their brother in her arms, sobbing. Jon is taken aback momentarily before wrapping his arms around her too. Arya lowers her face, fighting back the tears that are threatening to fall.

Arya doesn’t see when they part but she feels her brother’s hand on her shoulder. She looks up and sees his sad smile.

“You can see me, you know, at Castle Black,” he says. “No one would dare tell you that women aren’t allowed.”

Arya lets out a small laugh and wipes the corner of her eyes.

“We’ll come and visit you as soon as we can,” she promises him.

Jon gives her an amused look. “We?”

Arya meets his eyes with her own and smiles up at him.

“He wanted to be here to tell you himself but yes, we,” she says. “Gendry and I.”

Jon takes a step back and quirks a brow at her.

“Gendry?”

“Gendry.”

“I didn’t know you two-“

“It’s a long story,” Arya says. “And we want to tell it to you. Together.”

Arya knows her brother respects Gendry as a good friend and loves her enough to see what lies deep in her heart. She knows that he would never disapprove of them both.

Jon lets out a hearty laugh, a sound so beautiful to her ears that she can’t help but join in as well. Even Sansa bites her lip to keep from laughing as hard as them.

“Well then,” he says, holding her shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you both up North and hearing all about it.”

They stare at each for a few moments before tears finally escape from her eyes and Jon envelops her in his arms. She clutches him as close to her as she can, wishing that they don’t have to part like this.

He wipes her tears with his hands when they part and he holds the side of her neck like he always used to do.

“We’ll see each other again soon, little sister,” he tells her.

“We will.”

She wraps her arms around him again, as tightly as she can and he leaves a lingering kiss on her forehead.

**~**

The Northmen had been trickling out of the city since after the gathering. Sansa had ordered a contingent to stay as Bran’s own protection. Arya bids her sister farewell two days later, promising to join her back in Winterfell in time for her coronation.

It’s been lonely in the evenings without Gendry. Sometimes she catches herself despising the thought of wanting someone to be with her to share the warmth of her chambers in the Red Keep now that she resides there since it’s closer to her brother. She wants to say it’s a weakness to want someone to hold her at night when she sleeps or just to have someone talk to her about…anything, really. But Sandor’s words come back to her and she knows it isn’t weakness. It’s simply living, and living to the full.

Podrick, Brienne’s squire, is a surprisingly pleasant companion in Kings Landing. She’s surprised just how much the squire loved a good chat given that he’s always been reserved and subservient around her back in Winterfell much to her chagrin. But he makes for a good sparring partner even if he still has some ways to go still with all his hacking. He tells quite amusing stories of his journey with Ser Brienne too – she looks forward to these the most.

Brienne’s always been a true knight of the Seven Kingdom; a fiercely loyal companion and a woman true to her word. In some ways, she reminds Arya of Jon, with their unfathomable desire to do what is right and honourable and just.

“It’s a bit of a shame that she went and fell in love with Jaime Lannister though,” Podrick tells her one evening as they break bread for supper with Tyrion and Bran. It’s an odd mix of people Arya thinks she’d never be in the same room with much less share food together. The Imp, her little brother now King, and a former squire soon to be knighted himself.

Arya halts her eating to stare at Podrick.

“Jaime Lannister?” she asks incredulously.

Tyrion lifts a goblet up to her before taking a sip. “You don’t know my brother very well, my lady, but he’s got more than his looks to show for it.”

Arya stabs a thick slice of beef from the serving plate and drops it on her own, all the while waiting for one of them to explain. Tyrion clears his throat and regards the young woman with a small smile.

“The evening after the celebratory feast,” Tyrion continues. “To celebrate our victory against the Night King. Food, good company, overflowing cups of wine and my favourite thing to do to while away time…a game.”

“What game?”

“An innocent drinking game, of course. One of which I would gladly play right now if our beloved King Bran isn’t so… all-knowing.” Podrick bites his lip, not really sure how the new king will respond but Bran, as always, looks on quite aloof, distant even, from the current conversation.

“How did a game make two people fall in love?” Arya doesn’t think playing a drinking game with any of this lot will make her fall in love with any of them as easy as Tyrion seems to claim it to be.

“Not fall in love, my lady,” Podrick says. “More…getting on with it.”

“Oh.”

“What Podrick means is-“

“I know what he meant, Lord Tyrion,” she tells him. “It’s… definitely a more efficient way of conveying one’s feelings.”

“Efficient!” She doesn’t think she’s heard Tyrion laugh before but it doesn’t sound as threatening as she was once made to believe when she had been younger for someone of his “kind”. “Not exactly the word I was thinking of, Arya, but we’ll go with it.”

They continue their eating, Podrick regaling her with more stories about Brienne, Tyrion joining along with some of his before Bran takes his leave. Podrick wheels Bran back to his chambers, leaving her alone with Tyrion. She picks on some of the fruit laid out while Tyrion regards her from his cup. She lifts a brow in question.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be staying here in Kings Landing to accompany your brother, will you?”

“No, I won’t be.”

“Will you go back North and rule alongside Sansa?” Arya shakes her head.

“My sister can rule fine without me. She’s the best the North could ask for.”

“That is true.”

She’s heard from Bran that Tyrion had wanted to ask her to stay in Kings Landing and act as an envoy between the two kingdoms but Bran is astute enough to understand her deep wishes, which has nothing to do with either of her sibling’s crowns. At least, not yet. She’s tired, but also a little restless for something else. Something more peaceful. New.

“Wherever your journeys may take you, Arya, I hope you’d consider my proposal when you return,” Tyrion says with a small smile. “I can’t think of anyone better for the job than the princess of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She frowns at the title and Tyrion laughs.

“I also hate these titles.”

“Hand of the King doesn’t sound as stupid as princess of the Seven Kingdoms,” she says, rolling her eyes.

He chuckles. “Indeed, it does not.”

**~**

The day of Gendry’s return, Kings Landing had been covered in snow, the ashes mingling with the white hues of the frost.

“Your lips are dry,” she says, tipping Gendry’s chin up so she can inspect them. He arrived at the capital later than he had hoped but he was glad of the time spent in Storm’s End. The new castellan and now lord had gifted Gendry with gold and supplies for his journey and had sent Ser Davos the people’s blessing to serve the realm in Kings Landing. Gendry had left without preamble, thankful for the generosity of his father’s people and hopes to one day return with Arya alongside him.

Arya sits quite comfortably on top of him with just her loose shift and her hair out of its braid, cascading down to her shoulders. Her hair’s grown a little longer, just past her shoulders and when she’s asleep, he loves to play with the loose strands, silky smooth between his fingers. He grunts, adjusting her position on his lap. Sometimes he wonders if she’s aware of what she’s doing to him whenever they’re alone.

“It’s your fault,” he mumbles out with a grin. “You kiss like I’m going to leave you or something.”

“You did leave me.”

He settles his hands around her waist, fiddling with the hem of her shirt with his fingers brushing her lower back. She leans forward, closing the distance between their lips and he shutters his eyes, awaiting sweet contact but Arya only chuckles as she hovers her face over his.

“There were plenty of other women tonight who wanted you to do exactly that,” she reminds him before planting a chaste kiss on his lips and leaning back before he can capture her. He opens his eyes to meet her mischievous ones. He shakes his head with a laugh before lifting his hands higher so they can hold her sides steady.

The feast in honour of Ser Davos made Master of Ships had been quite a sordid affair after music began playing and the king had gone back to his chambers. But Arya was the only person that occupied his mind. He doesn’t think of anyone else but her, not even the honoured man himself. This is what it is to be in love, he thinks. At least one of – not being able to stop thinking about the other.

Gendry pushes upwards and flips her on to her back, grinning wickedly. “And not come home to you, the hero of Winterfell, the killer of the Night King, the avenger of the Red Wedding _and_ the most annoying woman in the entire Seven Kingdoms? Let them think whatever they want, they won’t have me.”

They smile and huff at each other between kisses, enjoying the feel of each other. Arya always thought her parents were so nauseating in their affection when she did catch them but having Gendry hovering over her, his lips on hers and his hands roaming around her body, she finally understands why they couldn’t stop themselves. Not when it feels this good. Not when it makes you so ridiculously happy.

She pulls the shift over her head and lays a hand on his chest halting him above her. She stares deep into his eyes and caresses his cheek with her fingers. He does the same to her, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Everything alright?” he asks her, concern knitted on his brow. She nods, cups both his cheeks and pulls him down to her, capturing his lips softly, searchingly. He leans his forehead on hers, his nose grazing her own, and he breathes her in, completely intoxicated by her.

“After Sansa’s coronation,” she mumbles against his cheek, “we should go North. Beyond the wall to visit Jon.”

“Sure you don’t want to wait when it’s a little warmer?”

“It doesn’t get warmer up there. Ever.” She pushes him off and onto his back, throwing a leg over him to straddle him. Gendry rests his hands on her thighs, gently caressing her skin. She catches him staring longingly at her breasts, gilded by the flickering fire from the hearth, and quirks her brow.

“Why are men so entranced by these?” she asks, genuinely curious about the male gaze. Gendry’s eyelids flutter as he tries to process her question. Arya laughs and leans down to meet his gaze, brushing her breasts on his chest, making him groan. “Why, Gendry?”

She straightens back to a sitting position and Gendry sighs in annoyance at her body not touching his. But then again, the view from here…

“I really can’t tell you why,” he confesses as he slowly caresses up her body. Arya smirks when she stops his hands just when they are about to reach their target. He tears his gaze from her breasts to meet her mirthful eyes.

“Podrick says men want what they don’t have.”

Gendry frowns, confused, before sitting up, almost toppling Arya over if his arms hadn’t secured her in place. Arya laughs seeing the crease on his brow.

“What _exactly_ were you talking about with Podrick Payne?”

“Men, women, and all of this,” she says, nonchalantly. For a second, Gendry sees red. “Oh,” she says, remembering, “Tyrion was there too.”

“ _Tyrion.”_

Arya doesn’t understand his unreasonable anger but then, she thinks, _ours is the fury_ indeed for these bloody Baratheons.

“I love my brother, Gendry, truly, but he’s not the most talkative of people,” she says, fiddling with the little hairs on the back of his head. “And I’ve never heard Podrick talk as much as he did. And Tyrion’s well, funny. I like hearing their stories.”

“Those stories must’ve been quite wild,” he says, rolling his eyes. Arya laughs at him. This jealous lover of hers.

“When you get Tyrion with more cups of wine than usual, he does start talking quite liberally,” she says. “He embarrassed Podrick a lot. Something to do about a magic cock or whatever that means.”

“ _What!_ “

But Arya takes his lips with her own, shutting him up with a searing kiss. A few movements later, he’s far too preoccupied to think about whomever and whatever had been said about someone else’s cock.

**~**

They leave Kings Landing within the fortnight. Their three-horse company - one for their supplies and belongings - ride at a leisurely-enough pace on the Kings Road. They stop at as many inns as they can along the way, the wintry frost far too cold to make camp outside even when they had each other to keep _warm_.

Arya left without any promises to both Tyrion and her brother except for one: someday she will return. Just not soon. Her brother had been cryptic as always but well-meaning in his farewell. Arya knows that he’ll send word to her if there’s something that he may need from her and only from her. Prophecies are still part of the fabric of Westeros, after all.

The Inn at the Crossroads still looks relatively the same as when she left it almost a year ago. The smells of Hot Pie’s bread wafting from the kitchens making her salivate as they sit on the table waiting for him.

Gendry’s looking around him like he can’t believe he’s back here again.

“Arry!” They hear a voice and they both turn to see Hot Pie carrying a large tray filled with two servings of fresh stew, bread and a tankard of ale. He looks beside him and is taken aback when he registers who’s sitting across from Arya.

“Gendry!”

“Hot Pie!” he greets with a laugh. Gendry stands to take the tray and places it on the table before giving Hot Pie a solid pat on the shoulders. “It’s good to see you, mate,” he says, grinning widely. Hot Pie’s looking between the two of them, mouth opening and closing like a fish, disbelief etched on his face at seeing his two friends again.

“Come and sit, Hot Pie.” Arya gestures on the open seat next to hers.

“I can’t believe you two are here,” Hot Pie tells them and Gendry nods, glancing at a smiling Arya. “And Arry, you’re a legend now. They call you the hero of Winterfell, the Slayer of the Night King and my personal favourite, the Bringer of Dawn. I got them to say that, you know. Sounded appropriate with all them tales about the longest night in Westeros. You’re everyone’s been talking about for months till that burning in Kings Landing happened.”

“I don’t think I’ll thank you for coming up with that,” she says with a laugh. Gendry rests his elbow on the table, regarding his good friend, unable to keep the smile off his face. It’s been many years since they last saw each other but he’s glad to see Hot Pie doing well. Still as plump and red of cheeks as last they left him.

“They treat you alright here then?” Gendry asks.

“Never better!” Hot Pie replies. “It’s been quite busy with the wars going on but now that it’s all over, things have slowed down a little bit. Plenty of Northmen came through this way though. A month or two back. Your sister was at the head of the company, Arry. I thought you was gonna be with them.”

“We’re on our way to Winterfell now. For Sansa’s coronation.”

“Must be quite a feast for the new Queen of the North,” he says. He quirks his head at Arya. “Say Arry, that means you’re a princess now, aren’t you? With your brother as king and your sister soon to be queen too.”

Gendry lets out a laugh and she just shakes her head at him fondly. “Don’t you go telling everyone to call me princess, Hot Pie. I’ll _know_ it’s you.”

Hot Pie knows his friend’s only fooling around but there’s a seriousness in her gaze that has him nodding anyway. When Arya sees it, her gaze relaxes, before snagging on the food on the table.

“Oh, you can have these,” Hot Pie says, gesturing to the two filled plates.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d get us more of that pie that you make,” Arya says. “I like those very much.”

Hot Pie’s eyes gleam in delight. “Alright then, one sec. Let me just get these to those fellers over there and I’ll make some up for you.”

“Take your time, Hot Pie,” Gendry says. “I’m sure we’ll be here all night catching up.”

**~**

The funniest moment to come out of the night is Hot Pie finding out that Gendry and Arya are together. It was several cups of ale later and they had been laughing about Gendry’s stories of dumb gold cloaks during his time in Kings Landing when a huge hulking man spots Arya and shouts, at the top of his lungs, that it’s the little wolf of the North.

Arya can hold her liquor well but by that time, she’s a little too red and a little too happy that when they hoisted her up on their shoulders and paraded her around the inn, it was Gendry who thought he was going to have to square up and fight a bunch of Riverlanders and travellers with nothing but a half-empty tankard and his dwindling wits as weapons.

Hot Pie watches, incredibly amused as Gendry tries to get to the laughing young woman surrounded by men of all sizes. Not that Gendry can’t handle himself, Hot Pie thinks. He’s grown older, leaner and definitely a lot stronger-looking. He doesn’t know if he can fight as well as he’s heard Arya fight but it’s nice to see him struggle against these men and seem to hold himself quite well.

By the time they set her down, Arya looks more than happy clutching on to Gendry as the men congratulate her and thank her before getting back to their business of drinking. Hot Pie doesn’t see many girls, especially ladies, around these parts and seeing Arry is quite nice. Especially with that little blush on her cheeks and her clean, tailored clothes. Even if she’s not wearing a dress. It suits her better, come to think of it.

“You look prettier than last I saw you, Arry,” he tells her. He does not miss the affectionate look Gendry throws her way nor the way he instinctively leans closer to her as she sits beside him.

“Thanks, Hot Pie,” Arya says. She gives Gendry’s elbow a quick squeeze. Hot Pie raises a brow, his eyes darting between the two of them. Gendry lets out a hearty laugh when Hot Pie’s eyes widen upon realising.

“It’s true, mate,” Gendry confirms and Hot Pie at first, doesn’t believe them but eventually, after a bit more convincing from Gendry, he allows it to be true. Arya doesn’t blame her friend for being a little sceptical of her and Gendry. Sometimes she thinks this is all just one unending dream.

Hot Pie comes around the next morning when he gifts Arya and Gendry with a stag-shaped bread with wolf-markings and a wolf-shaped bread with stag-markings. Both Gendry and Arya are impressed by the their friend’s improvement.

“I tried putting them together since both of you are well, together now,” Hot Pie says. “I made it the way you like it, Arry. And you too, Gendry. It’s really nice seeing both of you again.”

Arya squeezes his shoulders and Gendry gives him another hearty pat on the back.

“It’s good to see you too, Hot Pie.”

“You take care of yourself, mate.”

“And remember,” Arya says. “If you want a little change, there’ll always be a place for you in Winterfell.”

**~**

Gendry watches as the Northmen hail the warrior, the avenger, the bringer of dawn. Arya of House Stark, youngest daughter of Eddard of House Stark, of the blood of the First Men, the little wolf of the North, and the saviour of the Seven Kingdoms.

He watches, transfixed by this beautiful, powerful, young woman standing before her people, her sister’s people, her family’s people - the North.

She stands tall and proud by her sister’s side, now hailed the Queen in the North.

Arya has never been more happy than seeing her sister take a seat on a simple yet intricately-carved wooden chair that marks her rule as the reigning monarch of the kingdom of the North.

She doesn’t care that she’s a little more dressed up either with her hair in a tight, elaborate bun and a dress made by Sansa herself. It’s simple and fitted, of the colours of the Weirwood tree with a touch of gold and black. It’s beautiful, Arya thinks. Perhaps too beautiful for someone like her. But seeing her sister’s eyes light up when she saw her, and Gendry’s gaze never leaving her form, she can’t deny the pleasure she feels deep within.

Ever since she was a little girl, no one’s ever called her pretty. She was either “Horseface” or “Underfoot”  and sometimes even “Lumpyhead”. She was always dirty and such a boy compared to her beautiful, elegant older sister. She can’t deny that it had hurt her to hear their words. But she’s stubborn. Instead, she owned up to those words. If she’s not going to be a good a lady as her sister, then she’ll be someone else. And she became that…and more.

She looks on at her sister proudly as the Northmen hail the Queen in the North. She catches Sansa’s eyes, glistening with tears she’s holding back and she gives her a reassuring smile. Gendry’s eyes meet her own when she turns his way and she gives him a smile too. He returns it, the corner of his eyes crinkling. This stupid bull-headed boy she met in Kings Landing so many years ago. Her best and dearest friend whom she loves with her entirety.

She thinks this must be why Sansa and all those other annoying girls loved the stories of Florian and Jonquil. Not that her and Gendry’s story is remotely close to that. It’s a stupid story, really, and a little too…unrealistic. Her and Gendry’s story isn’t really worth the songs. They began as survivors, then friends, then lovers, and now, as each other’s family. There’s far better stories about love that people would rather listen to than hers and Gendry’s. And she’s fine with that. She doesn’t want people singing songs about her and her bastard blacksmith. She wants him all for herself.

Before the feast, Sansa takes Arya up to the battlements. They’ve been doing this since Arya came back from Kings Landing in what feels like a lifetime ago. It’s their place of solace; a time specifically for each other. Arya’s returned to her more comfortable attire as she stands with her sister beside her.

“You’ll be an incredible ruler,” Arya says, looking at her sister. “I can’t think of anyone serving the North better than you.”

“Thank you,” Sansa replies, looking back at Arya. She reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Father would be proud of you too, Arya.”

“Proud of us,” she replies, squeezing back.

“I know you and Gendry will be leaving soon to visit Jon.” Sansa smiles a knowing smile. “And I know that you’re not really thinking of going back to Winterfell either.”

“Sansa, it’s not about you-“

“I know. I just wanted to tell you that I have a gift for you. For the both of you.”

Arya looks at her sister curiously. “And what exactly is this gift for the _both_ of us? Sansa, you know I’m not married to him, right?”

“Yeah well, for now you’re not,” Sansa says with a knowing smile. Arya shakes her head at her sister. “But consider it a wedding gift anyway. For when you do, whenever and _wherever_ that may be.”

Arya lets out a small laugh. She doesn’t know when that’ll happen and what that might mean for her as a Stark and Gendry as a Baratheon but she realises that she doesn’t really care. Not when the winds of winter will take them to the far off places beyond the borders of Westeros. Not when no one would care who they are and the House they belong to. No, none of it matters. Not when they will have each other always.

“So what is it then?”

Sansa’s smile widens. “Go to White Harbour and take a ship to Eastwatch instead of on horseback when you visit Jon. It’ll be waiting for you there.”

**~**

The long winter gave way to a soft spring that turned to summer.

All across Westeros and between the six kingdoms and the seventh of the North, the people rebuilt. Trade agreements and ties between kingdoms were made. The dead were mourned, and the living rejoiced.

King Bran with his new council worked hard to rebuild Kings Landing, and the North flourished under the rule of their Queen. Westeros became green and gold and blue. After so many years of war and famine and starvation, the continent is finally at peace.

Arya wakes with the dawn, the creak of the ship as it rides the waves gently waking her. She slips from under the arm that Gendry has draped over her while they sleep. She puts on her shift and boots before tossing the blankets back over Gendry’s naked body.

It’s been nine years since they were last seen in Westeros. The world is vast, wondrous, and incredible to behold. From Beyond the Wall and down to Dorne, they had visited everything there is to visit in the Seven Kingdoms before taking up Sansa’s grand gift and sailing across the narrow sea to Essos and beyond.

When they had scoured all there is to scour, when their names became a legend to their people back home, and Arya thought it not impossible to seek out what’s west of Westeros, they had decided to finally make their way back to Westeros.

She makes her way up on the deck and looks out across the horizon to see what the dawn had revealed. She fiddles with the iron ring around her finger as she beholds the land where her sister is, where her brothers are. She wonders what they will say when they see each other again. What Jon would look like now that he’s close to pretty much being an old man. She wonders about Bran and how he’s holding up as king. And she wonders about her dear sister and what, she thinks amusedly, of what she’ll think of her growing belly.

She hears Gendry stalk towards her, his shirt loose and billowing against the warm northern wind. He pulls her against his chest and she twines their fingers together and they watch as the sun rise higher and higher, illuminating both the sea and the land that they once called home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather long-ish chapter to end this little re-write. Thank you all so much for taking the time to read, subscribe, comment and leave kudos. I appreciate every single one of you!
> 
> I love Arya Stark with all my heart and I love her and Gendry even more so I thought I'll just end it here for now because there's just so much scope to entertain when it comes to them in this world of which is my headcanon (seriously, stuff s8!!). Anywho, hoping to write and elaborate on a little more of their adventures or just domestic things between them later on within this fic so stay tuned for those. For now, might do a modern AU coz won't that be fun!
> 
> Now, do yourself a favour and read re:weapons (and you) by scrubclub <3


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